


Bad Sun

by albion



Series: Blood On My Name [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Assassination, Assassins & Hitmen, Biracial Jesse, Blackwatch, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Conspiracy, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator, Yakuza Hanzo Shimada
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-07-24 15:32:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 45,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7513585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/albion/pseuds/albion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Blackwatch agent Jesse McCree is sent to kill a mysterious assassin known only as DRAGONSTRIKE, there are a few things he expects to occur.</p><p>Falling in love isn't one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. we are lies like the summertime

**Author's Note:**

> 中文 translation [here](http://requimword.lofter.com/post/42ad10_c16adae).
> 
> According to Blizzard:  
> 1\. The Shimada Clan "profited from lucrative trade in arms, illegal substances, and assassination,"  
> 2\. Blackwatch, which Jesse was an agent in for a long time, was exposed for "stories of assassination, coercion, kidnapping, torture, and worse,"  
> 3\. In the _Dragons_ animated short, Hanzo tells Genji "you are not the first assassin sent to kill me."
> 
> This is set roughly ten years prior to the game, so Jesse is around 27 and Hanzo is 28.
> 
> Much love and thanks to Emry, Zi, Briar and Vi for beta-ing and offering much appreciated concrit.
> 
> As of **29/10/2016** , chapter one has been REVISED AND UPDATED. A second read through would be most welcomed and appreciated!

♞

“An assassin. Well. That _does_ sound interesting, doesn’t it?” —Jesse McCree

 

* * *

 

 **FEBRUARY 2067, PRESENT DAY  
** **21:57. 270 MILES OUTSIDE OF SAINT PETERSBURG, RUSSIA.**

This was the place.

Jesse glanced quickly at his cheap, stolen watch. The luminescent face blinked up at him, numbers flashing rhythmically in a two-second step. He’d made it just in time, too. Three minutes to ten, ready for a late evening rendezvous. Taking a look around him, he noted the the quiet, dark streets, dimly lit by evenly spaced lights that ran all the way down the main street, illuminating the potholes. Pretty much deserted, in this cold windy weather. Not unusual for a Thursday night in a quiet town in the middle of nowhere, but with an air of utter stillness that always put Jesse mildly on edge. The sky above him was open, vast and black, light pollution blotting out the stars so that if he glanced up, the void seemed to yawn at him, swallowing him up in its emptiness. Nothing like the bright empty skies of the desert, back home in New Mexico. Jesse considered for a long moment. Right now, if his commanding officer were to ask him, the colour was black.

The engine of his motorbike was still running—a quiet, comforting purr underneath his hands and thighs, solid weight between his legs. He turned off the power, reluctantly, already feeling more uncomfortable at the sudden silence.

The informant, like most uninformed informants, had assumed that a quiet still town would be the perfect place for a meeting. Of course, this worked perfectly in the movies. In real life, however, small towns weren’t usually the best of options—McCree knew from experience that cities were the places you wanted to be. In a big city, everyone was a stranger, people could disappear any day, and the larger the better. Nevertheless, here he was. The rendezvous point was some two hundred and seventy miles outside of Saint Petersburg, located near the edge of the town his contact had chosen. It had a rather long, unpronounceable name Jesse had long forgotten. The coordinates were on his datapad, at least, and he’d memorized the layout of it. A mandatory check-in wasn’t for a while yet. He had time. This one was off the books, no backup. Despite the less than ideal location, he wasn’t too concerned. He was just following a lead and meeting a guy, after all.

But he had also brought Peacekeeper, just in case.

The First Omnic Crisis had been officially declared over a few years after Jesse McCree had been born, but a second crisis during his lifetime seemed to be nearing reality much quicker than he’d previously thought, if the daily reports on Atlas News were anything to go by.

If he really strained to recall the Crisis, he could conjure up several hazy images in his brain—reports of bombings, frantic evacuations, omnics marching on cities across the globe. But generally he’d been too young while the chaos was occurring for it to properly register in his mind. At the time, it had been too distant in his life to worry about. Jesse’s childhood had been fairly normal, schooling average, career prospects less than ideal once he’d started running with the Deadlocks, but other than that he didn’t consider it to have really affected him in a personal way—that is, until he came into contact with Overwatch. With Blackwatch. With _Reyes._ Omnics and their ensuing crises entered a little more highly on his radar nowadays.

Which brought him to his current location.

Now that he had passed through some of the worst hit areas of Russia, he mused on the damage. After the last omnic push had been stopped, there had been the necessary and highly costly rebuilding phase. Sadly, as always happened, the majority of funds had been relocated towards the biggest cities and the tourist and government hotspots. This country had been hit badly by the devastation, and the omnic devils were said to still stumble around in some desolate parts of Siberia. Svyatogors were highly effective in combating omnics, but were also devastatingly expensive.

This particular area, a small cluster of towns bordered by barren farmland, seemed to have missed out on the majority of the reconstruction. Jesse had started off from Saint Petersburg on his bike, passing through a handful of different towns and truck stops along the way. In each one, as he always did, he had lifted a few items from unsuspecting targets, swapping and discarding clothes as he went, emerging a different person than he had been when he’d originally arrived in Russia. The further he got out from the urban areas, the more desolate and depressing the countryside became. Thick coarse gravel churned beneath the wheels of his old-fashioned motorbike, and after an hour or two he had stopped bothering to count the number of empty, shelled out ruins and the grim, weathered faces of the people he saw. The storm clouds had followed him from the city, hovering over him like a bad omen, but it hadn’t rained yet. By the time they finally broke, pouring out over the land and turning the soil into thick mud, McCree hoped he’d be far away from here, continuing down along a trail he’d started following three weeks ago.

Now that he could actually see the place, he wasn’t impressed—dingier than the photos he was able to find online, and smaller looking too. Silently, he wished his informant could have picked a better spot.  He’d worked in fancier and more optimistic places than this; but... then again, he’d also worked in worse. Tonight’s outing was for the purpose of contacting an informant, so McCree wasn’t about to complain (regrettably, the contact wasn’t the much preferred sexy type, but it still beat crawling through sewage in Laos).

After glancing up at the sign above the door of his final destination, he dismounted his bike. Flicking out the kickstand with his foot, he leant it to the side, and locked it with his fingerprint scan. Checking the sides out of habit, he winced at a few new scuff marks running through the crimson paint from the ricochet of the gravel. That was the problem with wheeled bikes, those that still made contact with the ground. When he got back home to the States he’d have to take it back into the shop for a touch up, and Old Pete at the garage would laugh at him over a glass of iced tea and tell him to finally “get wit’ the times an’ invest in a hoverbike, ya darned fool,” but Jesse would _never_ abandon her. She was his pride and joy.

The cold wind picked up and McCree shivered in the darkness. Pulling his scarf up higher around his neck, he retrieved his hat from where it hung on his nape for travel and put it on, already feeling more comfortable at the motion. Though he’d been swapping clothes consistently every time he stopped, he hadn’t changed his hat. You needed to keep some things regular, after all, since a man in entirely foreign clothes could never disguise that slight discomfort. Then he gave his bike another glance, frowning slightly. He’d had a few modifications done to its security system, and it couldn’t be unlocked without his fingerprint, but Jesse didn’t doubt that there were some entrepreneuring criminal types who might give it a go nevertheless. There was nowhere else to leave it, however, so he decided to take his chances. If nothing else, the fancy locking mechanism would hopefully dissuade most people, since criminality required a level of casual, unfaltering confidence the majority of people could never quite muster. His slim datapad, secure in its black and red case, beeped once, twice. Jesse switched it to silent.

A light flickered behind him, and he turned quickly to see where it came from. Tucking his head forward to shade his face with the brim, he cast a glance over the streets. Half burnt out neon lights popped around a toothpaste commercial in both English and Russian. White teeth blared from a woman's smile, even, regular, perfect. _The brightest, whitest smile around! Don't delay, pick up your tube today!_ Fake.

Re-pocketing the datapad, Jesse pushed the brim of his hat further down his face and shouldered open the heavy wooden door of the bar.

A sudden rush of noise and sweltering heat washed over him as he entered the bar. It was a regular hole in the wall, dim and grimy, peeling dark green paint on the walls, lurid and unpleasant. McCree bumped the door shut with his shoulder and stuck his hands into his pockets. He was grateful he’d ditched his usual casual wear for something low profile, even if the suede jacket he’d lifted from the back of a chair in a roadside diner wasn’t really doing him any favours. Before long he’d start sweating unpleasantly in this get-up, he knew, so he decided to get this over quickly.

A few people turned to look as he entered, eyes immediately drawn towards his hat. One corner featured a pool table, velvet old and worn, where several women were milling around, laughing and smoking, bent close to each other in order to hear over the loud music. They were clearly keeping to themselves, staying away from the men in a protective circle. Jesse didn’t blame them. He shifted his weight into a casual position and took a few steps in, glancing around at the company he would keep for the next hour or so. Thankfully, the glint of his robotic wrist wasn’t out of place—there were some beefy mercenary types boasting robotic prosthetics at one table, playing cards and laughing uproariously, though there were a notable lack of any omnics in the room. Jesse remembered the shelled out ruins from earlier. Omnic hate remained strong here.

Jesse lengthened his stride and sat down at the bar, the stool uncomfortably sticky, then nodded at the bartender. Jesse gave her a quick once-over. The girl on shift that night was not altogether unattractive, he mused. As she moved to push a lock of dark dyed black hair behind her ear, Jesse noticed her left forearm, where his trained eyes could spot a distinctive thick rope of fading bruises matching the shape of a large handprint. She’d attempted to cover it up with concealer, but in the heat of the bar it had started to sweat off, lines of pale makeup streaking across the darker fading purple. Jesse swallowed, hoped at least she’d given the other person a matching set.

McCree pulled his hat off his head and set it down onto the bartop, reaching into his pocket for a cigar and lighter, which he placed next to the hat for later. The girl came over, drying a newly washed glass.

 _“What can I can get you, sir?”_ she asked in fluid Russian, slightly shouting in order to be heard.

Jesse’s Russian wasn’t perfect, but good enough to get him around most places without incident. Working for Blackwatch and accepting assignments around the world meant you either picked up a working knowledge of most languages, or you were a poor assassin, which equaled a dead assassin. Speaking English here wouldn’t immediately set off any _major_ alarm bells given the sign outside, but Jesse was aware he had a distinct and heavily recognizable accent, which meant he should probably try to stick to as much Russian as his limited vocabulary would allow. An English speaker here probably wouldn’t be remembered, but a New Mexican would be.

“If you have it, bourbon. On rocks.” He winced at his own clumsy Russian. Careful, careful.

The girl nodded once. “Yeah, we have it. But I’ll need to see some credit before I fetch it for you. It’s uh, standard procedure to see the money first. Nowadays.”

McCree nodded and flashed her a few banknotes pulled from the back pocket of his jeans. He carried no credit chips on assignment; cards were traceable. Cash never was.

She glanced at the money and turned to grab the bottle and a glass. He turned to survey his surroundings again. Most of the few who had been staring at his clothes had now turned back to their cards or their drinks, but Jesse wasn’t fooled. He knew when people were truly occupied and when they were trying hard to pretend they weren’t. There were a couple of men sitting at a table close to him who were definitely fingering concealed guns, and two at another that looked vaguely like gangsters from a bad movie. They were sitting at a table next to the window, so they had most definitely spotted him arriving on his expensive bike. Jesse shot them a quick glance from the corner of his eye, grinned at the thought that they were probably planning to have him killed and thrown out with the trash later for it. Subtly, he slid his left arm down his side to brush lightly against the shape of his six-shooter. It was concealed in a holster under his jacket for quick draw, and not in its customary place on his belt. He wasn’t looking for trouble with any civilians, but better to be ready in any situation. For them, or anything else.

He checked his watch again. Five minutes until the meeting.

The bartender poured him his drink. McCree nodded to her gratefully before passing her the money.

“This is an interesting place,” he began casually. “We’re not far out from Volskaya, no?”

“That’s right.”

Jesse could barely hear her over the heavy bass line of the song playing in the background, low and thrumming. It was in English, and vaguely familiar. He couldn’t remove his jacket due to the holster, but as he shifted in his seat he could feel the uncomfortable sensation of sweat forming underneath the collar of his stolen shirt and under his arms. “Served us well for what happened, those years back,” he replied.

Now she looked uncomfortable. “We don’t like to talk about them here.”

 _Them._ Jesse nodded. “I figured as much.” He leaned in like he was interested, shooting her his sleaziest smile. “Tell me about people here,” he murmured, as if sweet talking. “Is there anyone interesting around?” His contact _would_ meet him here at the bar. That was the arrangement.

Jesse took a sip of his whiskey. It wasn’t bourbon. He actually wasn’t sure what it was.

He decided not to mention it. The biotics system running through his body would neutralize the effects of any known drugs, if they had been added.

The bartender seemed to catch on pretty quickly to his maneuver, giving the bar a quick once over before seemingly deciding that her boss wasn’t around. She leaned her weight over the bar top, returning his smile.

“We get a _lot_ of interesting types of people here,” she replied. “Rough sort of town, but you might find some... suitable company, if that’s what you’re wanting.”

McCree got the hint and palmed her another banknote. She slid it into her back pocket. Then, brusquely: “Your date isn’t here.”

McCree stopped in his tracks, careful to maintain his easy smile as an alarm bell went off in his mind. “No? That is a shame.”

 _She knows more than she should,_ he thought uneasily.

“Never showed, I’m afraid. You’ve been stood up.”

Jesse grimaced, then shrugged casually. “Well, sometimes things do not always work out as planned.” So the contact _hadn’t_ showed up.

“But if you’re not that picky,” she continued, voice carefully balanced, ”there’s someone else you might be interested in.” She gave him a long, hard look; leaned in so close that McCree could smell the strong smell of her cheap perfume. “I’m tired of your sort appearing—the dangerous sort.”

Jesse paused. While he searched for the words in his limited vocabulary, he lowered his gaze non-threateningly, then gave her an easy smile. “The dangerous sort?”

She didn’t hesitate. “This place has always had trouble with drug dealers and smugglers. But there’s been an increase recently in… other kinds of trouble. The kind of trouble _you_ sort bring. I don’t want this town known as a haven for… murderers and assassins.”

Jesse didn’t miss the slide of her eyes to the corner, a hang, and a slide back to his face. A connection. _Assassin._ That was the key. His heart began to race quicker, involuntarily. He drank more of his liquor.

Another warning bell in his mind. _Why_ did she know so much?

 _Because the contact warned her_ , his brain offered in response. _He told her he wouldn’t be coming._

“ _That’s_ what you think I’m here for? I’m just a regular guy, I’m afraid.” McCree chuckled softly, as if her words were entirely outlandish, an amusing joke. “An assassin. Well. That _does_ sound interesting, doesn’t it?” Tone light, jovial.

She didn’t respond to his bluff, but instead stared straight at him, and shifted her head almost imperceptibly towards the back of the bar, into the smokiest, darkest corner. “Him.”

Jesse resisted the urge to turn around and give himself away. Instead, he glanced toward the large mirror set behind the bar, accompanied by bottles of cheap liquor. The light from behind the bar illuminated it, but he could barely see the reflection of the man she was referring to. He was dressed in all black, dark hair tied in a topknot, and the smoke from the cigarette between his lips obscured his face, sitting all in shadow. A single drink in front of him. Clear. Vodka? Gin? Heavy alcohol content, yet barely touched. Here was someone who wanted to remain sober.

Jesse knew instantly who this man was. Or rather, what his codename and profession was. _Here_ was the reason his contact hadn’t showed. McCree cursed internally. He hoped the guy had gotten away, but somehow, he doubted the outcome would be so positive. He ran his arm over his gun again. It looked like he would be needing it after all.

“Alina!” came a gruff voice suddenly from the back of the bar, near the door leading to the kitchen. “I pay you to serve drinks, not gossip. You want company, you can join the girls on the street corner!”

She practically leaped back from the bar-top, but the warm metal of Jesse’s arm on her hand stopped her in her tracks.

Jesse nodded towards the kitchen door. “Do you need any help with him?” he murmured, flicking open his jacket just enough to allow the barest glint of Peacekeeper to shine in the dim light.

She glanced at his arm, at the gun, and chewed down on her bottom lip. Then she pulled her arm from his grip and hurried away. “I think you need it more than I do,” she hissed behind her as she went over to another patron.

McCree reluctantly finished the not-bourbon, wincing as it burned acidic all the way down his throat. Truth be told, he was breaking one of the first Blackwatch rules by drinking on the job. But you couldn’t go to a bar like this and _not_ order a drink. It was odd looking, and in these types of places, odd translated into suspicious. He lit his cigar and smoked casually for a while, keeping his eye on the figure in the corner. This man wasn’t supposed to _be_ here. He was supposed to have left by now.

Though he couldn’t see his face, Jesse knew the figure in the corner was looking at him. He could feel it, burning into the flesh of his back. A challenge. A million-word silent conversation spoken across the bar.

Jesse was supposed to have met with his contact to find out where his target would be next. His target wasn’t supposed to be _waiting_ for him.

Something was clearly wrong, and now Jesse needed to use his wits if he was going to get out. But showing discomfort here would be suicidal, and so instead he lit his cigar, smoking casually.

Jesse’s casual manner worked until some new patrons sat down at a table and blocked the reflection of his target in the mirror, and he was reduced to relying on his hearing and the occasional glance around at the décor. It wasn’t going to hold up for much longer, especially since the aesthetic of this place involved several ancient photographs of Red Square, a few mounted animal heads that looked distinctly _nasty_ , in his opinion, and some questionable stains on the bar top. And Jesse had looked at them one too many times already.

McCree heard the shift as the man in question silently rose from his table, and strained to hear his conversation with the server as he settled his tab. The conversations around him and the music were drowning out the sound. Jesse realized he should have invested in that enhanced hearing device Dr. Ziegler had been trying to pitch to him, despite how obvious and high profile it looked. They were still working on making the piece more discreet. He’d turned her down at the time, citing that his ops would rarely allow something so obvious. In retrospect, given that currently he was having difficulty listening in on what could contain important information, it might have been a foolish move, especially since soon afterwards Dr. Ziegler had flown off to Singapore on some urgent mission Jesse hadn’t been privy to the details of. She still hadn’t returned when he’d left. Jesse privately hoped she was alright, and grimaced at the thought of Reyes dressing him down when he got back for turning down something that would cost him a mission.

He was so engaged in mentally recoiling at the prospect of being verbally decimated by Reyes (yet again), he almost missed the moment his target slipped out the back door.

As soon as he realized, McCree carefully got up from his stool and replaced his hat on his head, chewing on the end of his cigar. The mercenaries who had been eyeing him earlier gave him a warning glance, but he inclined his head to tell them he had no intention of intruding on their turf, and they relaxed, clearly realizing the fight wasn’t worth it. He strolled to the fire escape as quickly as he dared, silently cursed the weight of his own heavy footsteps, and stopped just before he reached the door. He checked his surroundings one last time. Nobody was paying attention to him anymore. That was good.

He paused, counted backwards down from five, and unzipped his jacket. Then he pushed open the door.

The fire escape led out onto a barely lit back alley, moonlight blocked by the tall brick buildings that rose uncomfortably close together on either side of the paved street. The building directly across from him was a grubby looking apartment complex, and to his left were some industrial sized garbage dumpsters from which he could hear the distinct rustling of some kind of scavenging animal. McCree waited until the door had shut behind him, blocking off any backlight, and put out his cigar. From the bar, he could still hear the low throb of music. Silently, he slipped Peacekeeper out of its holster. It had finally started to rain.

He glanced around, vision hindered by the dark and doubly so by the weather. Captain Amari had the scopes on her rifles, and Commander Morrison had his tactical visors that enhanced vision in his right eye, giving him increased range and accuracy, but McCree hadn’t secured anything similar before he’d flown out to Saint Petersburg, thinking that he’d be in, out. A quick, no-engagement op. He was deeply regretting it now.  

McCree slipped into the shadow of one of the dumpsters that was sitting tucked up against one wall. He heard the sound of the animal, whatever it was, silently flee into the night, and shot a quick glance to the brick next to his head. Someone had sprayed an unflattering picture of an omnic in blue paint and written something in Russian. Jesse didn’t even need to understand the writing to know it was a slur.

He paused for a moment to think. The contact hadn’t showed, either because the target had made his presence known and the contact had been scared off, or—McCree winced—the contact was now face down deep in a river somewhere. For three weeks he’d been stalking this target, and each time he had moved on before McCree could get there. But this time, he’d remained long enough for Jesse to catch up. Either there was some business of his here that remained unfinished, or he was deliberately lying in wait for his pursuer.

Given what had just happened in the bar, Jesse knew which answer he’d bet his credit chips on. And he really, _really_ didn’t like that idea. Placing his forefinger alongside the trigger of his revolver, he took a deep breath and held it, listening for movement.

The whistle of an arrow slicing through the air came almost too late, and he barely rolled forward in time to dodge what would have definitely been a headshot. The arrow glanced off the brick and landed somewhere in the darkness behind him with a distinct, metallic sound.

McCree cursed, swinging his head around wildly to pinpoint where it had come from. This was _supposed_ to have been a simple recon job. Reyes was going to have his head on a silver platter. But his target _was_ another assassin, and the first rule of taking down another assassin was this: always assume they were one step ahead of you.

 _Better to be overly cautious than to be dead, child,_ Ana had drilled into his brain after he had come back from a Blackwatch op that had left him with injuries down the entire left side of his body. Unfortunately, caution had never been Jesse’s strongest suit, and now the sniper had revealed his location. Stealth had gone out the door along with his target, and now there was nothing he could do but retaliate, as messy as it might be.

McCree raised his revolver and fired into the night. He heard the sound of the bullet ricochet off the roof tiles of the apartment complex across from him, and, _there—_ the sound of soft, quick footsteps. His fellow assassin clearly liked the high ground. Another arrow came flying through the air and barely missed his left thigh, instead puncturing an unfortunate black garbage bag that began to emit a horrible rotten smell.

He had to get out of his current position, mostly because he was being sniped at from a height, but also partly because of the stench. Taking potshots at a man while he was surrounded by garbage—well, that just wasn’t _right_. McCree couldn’t scale the building, not without specialized equipment, but he _did_ have good range on his gun, and his ma had always told him he was a crack shot.

He fired again, and now he saw a few lights turn on inside the complex and heard the sound of people raising their voices inside the bar. He knew he had to draw this out into a place where the target had no height advantage and where the sound of gunfire wasn’t going to attract the local police.

They were near the edge of town, and the town was bordered on all sides by barren farmland. It wasn’t great, but it would do. And McCree _was_ a self-professed master of improvisation, especially when everything had gone up shit creek without a paddle.

Jesse began running towards the street corner, ducking in and out of the street lights. Before he made it, however, from out of nowhere came a burst of what felt like slivers of glass digging into his legs and chest. He swore loudly, instinctively threw his arms up over his face and felt the sharp puncture of metal into his forearms. Fucking hell, what _was_ that, a shrapnel grenade?

He had no time to think. Jesse raised his gun and fired again wildly, and heard the satisfying sound of someone slipping on wet roof tile. He doubted he’d eliminated the target, but he’d thrown them off. Time to escape and salvage as much of this as he could.

Rounding the corner of the bar, Jesse could see people piling out of the front door, yelling at him in Russian and a few pulling out mobile devices. He could see the bartender from earlier, eyes scanning the streets. That was bad. Any footage was bad.

He grimaced, made a split second decision and fired a warning shot far above their heads at the sign over the door. The bullets pinged off the sign and Jesse heard them scream and duck, which gave him just enough time to decide to ditch the bar entirely and run across the barely lit deserted street towards the next block. He cursed again. He’d have to pick up his bike later, _if_ it was still there by the time he made it back.

There were footsteps behind him, a soft _thump thump thump_ in an erratic pattern that he knew was his pursuer.

Jesse ran straight down another alley, praying his intel was good and this did in fact lead to the outskirts of the town. He’d already been wrong about too many things tonight. The sound of his heavy boots against the ground was uncomfortably loud, thundering in his ears. Thankfully, he wasn’t currently wearing spurs. If he was, he might never live that one down.

 _You might not live at all if you don’t fire back, son,_ he thought, which for some reason came to him in Commander Morrison’s voice. Spinning himself around in a sharp 180, he fired three rounds in quick succession.

He stopped. He couldn’t hear his pursuer. Had he lost him? Unless—

The arrow came shooting through the air and into his right thigh. Jesse cried out with the pain, felt his knees buckle as he grabbed at the wound with his free hand. He heard the horrible grate of his datapad skidding out of his pocket, and watched in increasing horror as another arrow landed directly into its mark, shattering the screen beyond repair.

_Leave it. Just leave the damned thing._

McCree looked down at the mess of his leg. The arrow had pierced right through the heavy denim straight into the muscle. He grabbed the shaft of the arrow, set his jaw, and pulled the barb straight out, teeth grinding with the pain. If he made it through the utter wreckage of tonight, Reyes was going to _flay him alive_.

He backed up against the metal fence at the end of the alley, limping, and fired again, and again. He could hear sirens wailing in the distance; the sounds of dogs barking and people yelling. He had no idea if his shots were even hitting.

Jesse glanced up at the height of the fence. With one leg now pretty much unusable, it loomed higher. He’d never scaled a fence with one leg and a bleeding arrow wound before.

“Well, guess there’s a first time for everythin’,” he growled, and hoisted himself up on his good leg, Peacekeeper gripped between his teeth. The pain was agonizing, sharp metal tearing into the flesh of his right hand, but he kept going desperately, straddling the fence and dropping himself down into the wet bushes on the other side.

He landed badly. As he tried to push himself up, he heard the sickening screech of the internal gears in his cybernetic arm give out. He dropped, teeth clacking with the impact, and fire shrieked up his wounded leg. Four years he’d had this thing now, without any major complaints, and _now_ it decided to take the evening off. At least he hadn’t landed on his injured thigh. He could keep going. He had to, if he was going to salvage this utter wreck of a mission and get out with his life. He was out one arm and one leg. He could make it. He pushed himself up with his right fist, breathing shallow and rapid, and kept running.

The bushes beside the fence led into an expanse of flat grass and nettles that would leaven the height disadvantage and allow McCree to fire without guessing. And _there_ , even through the drizzle of rain, he could see his mark, a black silhouette against the moonlight, approaching him with a drawn bow.

McCree closed his left eye and aimed for a brief moment. He fired, just at the same time an arrow came hurtling its way into his ribs.

It punctured through the material of his jacket, past his shirt, and straight into the kevlar of his undervest. The impact threw Jesse into the damp grass, Peacekeeper thudding somewhere in the dark tangle. Cursing, Jesse reached for his pocket. Then he remembered his datapad was gone, shattered somewhere past the fence. He cursed again.

This was supposed to have been simple. Now he was bleeding out and he had no idea if the sniper was dead. He knew his only hope were the few Blackwatch agents who would be on duty at this hour, and they’d only begin looking for him when he inevitably missed his scheduled check-in.

McCree’s last thought before falling unconscious was that he really wished he could have seen the sun setting over the mesa one last time, dark reds and burnt oranges spreading over the pale pink rock.

He’d messed up. The colour now was red.

The transmission had come in through the private comm frequency on his datapad three weeks prior, as McCree had been laying low in a motel in Nevada relaxing after the success of his last op. It was a kill mission, that much was certain. Jesse's specialty. The sender’s frequency had been scrambled, as was usual, and a money deposit for necessary purchases had been run through twelve fictitious names before finally landing in one of his accounts. That was also fairly usual.

What _was_ unusual were the contents of the transmission itself.

 _DRAGONSTRIKE_. That was it. There had been no time limit given, no details for a later meeting to confirm the kill and receive the rest of the payment. Just the name, just an alias.

But Jesse McCree wasn’t a professional Blackwatch assassin for nothing. And professionals never turned down a job so intriguing.

He hadn’t heard of the alias before, but that wasn’t wholly uncommon. The worst assassins were the ones who plastered their names and faces around the world on wanted posters, reveling in the infamy, _wanting_ to be caught.

The best assassins were the ones nobody knew existed.

 

 **From:** user_id_3323393  
**To:** user_id_2665464  
**Sent:** [CLASSIFIED]  
**Subject:** FWD:detail_163746796

Do you know about this? Has this op been confirmed?

 

-

 

 **From:** [CLASSIFIED] <d465d76sh563@s.t.y.m.p.h.a.l.i.a>  
**To:** user_id_3323393 <09f84ef9092m@t.h.e.m.i.s.c.y.r.a>  
**Sent:** [CLASSIFIED]  
**Subject:** detail_163746796

DRAGONSTRIKE.

 

-

 

 **From:** user_id_2665464  
**To:** user_id_3323393  
**Sent:** [CLASSIFIED]  
**Subject:** RE:detail_163746796

I’m checking it out now. It’s unusual, but accept it as per the others. I'm monitoring it.

 

 


	2. like the spring we are such fools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received a lovely fanart of Jesse in his swanky undercover outfit, you can view it [here](http://hellomynameisandiam.tumblr.com/post/149004346992/listen-in-the-second-chapter-of-sassanids-fic)!!  
> 

♚

 “That’s what Overwatch is, I suppose. You get as many bad guys as you can, and you keep on going, even though the odds are against you.”  
—Jack Morrison

 

* * *

 

 **SIX MONTHS EARLIER  
** **21:39. DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES.**

 

Jesse Álvaro McCree was not built for formal affairs.

He was a man of simple tastes, a rough and tumble kind of guy who liked big bikes, big hats, two six-shooters on his belt and a glass of Jack Daniel’s at the end of a long day. He was the guy you sent in to eliminate the target, sweeten the deal, execute the threat. And once he was done, he’d make a fast getaway. That was his shindig. He was an operative who specialized in dirty deals, not assignments that looked like they were pulled straight from a cliché spy movie.

Standing in the foyer of a five star hotel in Dubai at an architectural convention sponsored by the Vishkar Corporation, dressed to the nines with a hidden earpiece and a tracking device in the sole of his shoe was not generally his idea of a comfort zone. He didn’t even have his gun on him as his role was recon only, and security for the event was officially being overseen by Helix Security International. If you had asked Jesse McCree who the right agent for this job was, he would have emphatically argued for any single Overwatch agent apart from himself. This was the holotext definition of a Bad Idea.

Well okay, maybe not newly recruited Agent Winston either. That idea was probably even worse. Actually, a fair majority of them would have been a bad idea. Sadly, in an ironic and unfortunate twist of fate, Jesse had been the most experienced field operative who was not already on assignment, and Reyes had been all too keen to remind Jesse that he needed to maintain his official Overwatch duties for the newshounds as well as perform his off-record Blackwatch ops. In his head, Jesse could still picture the grin on his face, lips and black mustache curling upwards to reveal sharp white teeth in a dangerous mouth. Reyes only ever smiled like he was planning to eat you alive. Ten years ago, Jesse had thought perhaps it was the Captain’s way of trying to appear tougher, intimidate the green recruits and teach them some healthy fear of their commanding officer. Now, he knew it was just another quirk of his commander’s; an unconsciously learned defense mechanism for dealing with the world. Smile when you pull the trigger, because in the end the trigger was all you had. That was Blackwatch’s way, working underneath the gold and shiny chrome that was Overwatch. And apparently, Overwatch missions had gotten a lot more Bond-esque since he’d last been on one.

So, here he was, feeling like a lost ball in a high weed.

Case in point: his suit, Tom Ford with a beautiful pair of matching shoes and a red pocket square, was not something he’d ever pick out for himself; the Bulgari watch on his left wrist was probably the most expensive accessory he’d ever laid eyes on, and certainly the most expensive he’d ever worn. He kept twisting the strap round and around, unused to the feeling.

At least he’d been given the directive that he was allowed a single drink tonight as part of his cover, even if one drink was downright _miserly_ , in Jesse’s humble opinion.

_“Agent McCree, stop fidgeting. You’re here on a mission.”_

Jesse tapped his hidden earpiece, fiddling with his hair to disguise the motion.

_“Roger that, Agent Carson. Don’t worry, I’m just scoutin’ around.”_

_“Stop talking so much,”_ snapped First Agent Gérard Lacroix down the comm. “ _It’s obvious.”_

 _“Don’t worry McCree,”_ Agent Carson’s voice was warm, “ _we’ve got eyes on you from above. You’ll be fine.”_

If only he felt so reassured.

With nothing else to do, Jesse figured it was high time he started on his single drink quota, and wandered up to the bar. He slid a few Dirham banknotes into the jar, nodded at the omnic bartender, and ordered a bourbon, neat.

McCree took the opportunity to study the company gathered for the evening. Most of the people in attendance were professors, students and researchers from the Architech Academy, as well as a few other high ranking members from Vishkar that McCree recognized from news broadcasts. Along with the Vishkar were several diplomats, a few world renowned scientists from leading universities, and, if Overwatch’s information was good, several members of the notorious Shimada clan, who were there to oversee the transport of an illegal Photon Projector shipment under the guise of the academic conference.

Jesse really, _really_ hoped Overwatch’s information was good, because his collar was feeling more and more like a noose by the minute.

He sipped his bourbon, and tried to pretend like he belonged in this company. His cover was that of a professor of architecture from Cornell, there for the intellectual stimulation. His invitation, graciously borrowed from the real professor, who was currently in a safehouse somewhere in Algiers, bore the name Professor William MacDonald.

In truth, Jesse McCree knew absolutely fuck-all about architecture. He was a shoot first, ask questions later kind of guy. But he was good at bullshitting.

He set down his drink as he saw a young woman approach the bar; dark-skinned and dressed in a Vishkar uniform of white, grey and purple. Her hair was long and dark, flowing straight down her back, and on her left arm was a bracelet of what looked like spun silver, interspersed with crystal.

She ordered a drink in rapidly flowing Arabic that Jesse made no attempt to try and understand, and turned around while she waited, arms crossed over her chest and posture rigid. Jesse was unsubtly attempting to study the bracelet on her arm, but she hadn’t even appeared to notice his gawking.

Suddenly, she spoke, in a clear, no-nonsense tone.

“Why are you here?”

Jesse nearly jumped. “Uh, howdy ma’am.” He went to tip his hat, and remembered too late that it was currently not on his head, but sitting happily on his bed back at base along with his casual civilian clothes. He ran a hand through his hair instead, and heard Agent Carson snort quietly down the comm.

She sniffed. “American. You are not a member of Vishkar, or I would have recognized you. You must be a third party, but you do not strike me as either the diplomatic or the scientific type. So. Who are you, and why are you here.”

Her voice was calm, but Jesse could hear the undercurrent of iron in it. The bartender handed the woman what looked like a glass of iced mint tea, and she took a long drink, not meeting Jesse’s eyes.

 _“McCree,”_  said Carson, _“I realize you can’t speak out loud right now, but don’t worry, we’re running diagnostics on her. We’ll give you a name soon.”_

 _“Until then,”_ Lacroix interjected, _“stay sharp. I don’t trust her.”_

“I am waiting,” said the woman again, and Jesse realized with a jolt that he’d been standing with a relatively blank look on his face.

“Uh, I’m Professor MacDonald, from Cornell University. Architecture.”

She gazed at him coldly. “You are very young for a professor. And truth be told, I do not think _you_ even believe the words you speak.”

Jesse threw his arms out in a relaxed gesture. “Well, ya got me. I’m not from Cornell. I ain’t even a professor.”

 _“McCree,”_ came Lacroix’s voice in a warning tone, _“what are you_ _—”_

“I’m actually,” Jesse finished off with a flourish, “just an architectural student from UNM.”

She looked completely lost, and McCree silently thanked his lucky stars for Albuquerque.

“Albuquerque,” he clarified.

“How did you get here, then?” Now she actually sounded interested, and Jesse took a sip of his bourbon. God, that was good stuff. Too bad he was only allowed one glass of it.

“Well, I don’t like to tattle, but let’s just say I have some real good contacts. Namely, the _real_ Prof. Mac. Met the guy at the beginnin’ of grad school. He was bound to attend the conference, got hit real bad with a nasty illness right before it, and said I could have his invite. Real incredible fella he is, all generous and the like.”

He threw back the last of his bourbon triumphantly, and heard Agent Lacroix sigh deeply in his ear.

The woman just stared at him, so Jesse flashed her his brightest smile. “And you are… ma’am?”

“My name is Satya Vaswani. I’m a student at the Architech Academy. One of their top students.”

“Impressive,” Jesse replied. “I’ve heard they teach some _real interestin’_ techniques there.”

“Yes, they do,” she said bluntly, and McCree realized after a short pause that he probably wasn’t going to get anything useful out of her.

 _“She’s telling the truth,”_ said Lacroix down the comm. _“Satya Vaswani, currently enrolled as a student at the Architech Academy. One of their top students already, despite her age. Oh, and she’s eighteen, so don’t try anything funny.”_

 _“Agent McCree, your three o’clock,”_ interrupted Carson. _“I’ve got a strong suspicion those might be the Shimadas. With a Shimada himself. Not sure which one though.”_

Jesse pretended to check his expensive watch, using his peripheral vision to glance at the doorway where four men in suits had just entered, and then bowed slightly at Satya.

“Well, begging your pardon, ma’am, but I have someone to meet. I wish you well in your studies, Ms. Vaswani.”

She did not reply, and Jesse crept his way along the foyer, pretending to study the layout of the hotel. It was an absolutely incredible design, he had to admit, even if he knew nothing about architecture. The foyer was dotted with little booths amidst the expensive furniture, displaying Vishkar tech behind walls of shatterproof glass. The floor was white marble, polished to such a shine that a few ladies had already slipped a bit in their heels, with sets of three columns interspersed every couple of metres rising up towards a high glass ceiling that allowed for a spectacular view of the deep azure blue of the night sky. The bar, staffed by a smartly dressed mix of human and omnic servers, faced a wall of glass that looked out upon a dimly lit garden where people were moving and talking quietly, and further out from that, past the stone wall of the hotel and the foliage, Jesse could see a constructed bay, on which the lights of boats were mere pinpricks in the distance. It was stunning, but he wasn’t here to admire its opulence.

He was here to follow some illegal arms dealers.

The four men Carson had identified were all most likely Japanese, although Jesse knew better than to assume any immediate identification with the _Shimada-gumi_ based solely on their ethnicity. What had sparked Carson’s interest was the makeup of the group; one man surrounded by what were clearly bodyguards. Two of the men, built like brick shithouses, were positively bursting out of their suits, hair closely cropped in military fashion and arms folded closely against their chests. Another one, much thinner than the other two but definitely sporting a concealed gun, was flaunting an incredible pompadour, and was walking a few steps behind the man Jesse knew had to be the leader. Too young to be old dragon Shimada himself, but perhaps one of the cousins, or maybe one of Shimada’s younger brothers? Jesse had scanned the official Overwatch debriefing packet, as small it had been. They knew the Shimada was a heavily family oriented affair, and the top positions were staffed with blood relatives. What they were lacking were any solid names, faces or ages. This fella though, he looked the part.

He was roughly the same height as Pompadour, not a tall man by any means, but it was the heaviness of his brow, the stiffness in his shoulders, and the proud line of his nose and jaw that gave him away. His beard, although clearly newly grown, was neatly trimmed and styled close to his jawline. Jesse rubbed one hand over his own scruff, suddenly feeling self-conscious of his own stubble. As he moved closer, he could see that Shimada's straight black hair was parted down the middle and tied in a low ponytail at the back. He was dressed smartly in a suit of his own, charcoal grey with a dark blue shirt and black tie. He looked like a man that knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was the most powerful one in the room.

Bingo.

A company of Vishkar that had been loitering near the exit to the garden turned around with the arrival of the four men, and one woman, dressed in an incredible gown of blood red slashed with ribbons of white came immediately forward, arms outstretched in a cordial greeting. She clasped the leader of the group tightly in her arms, and Jesse snorted quietly at the sight of Shimada stiffening visibly in her embrace, making no move to embrace her back. She bent her head in a quick air kiss to both cheeks, and he looked physically pained by the movement. No touching the Boss-man, it seemed. McCree noticed her slight pause around his right ear, and knew she was whispering something to him, but he was too far away to make out her words.

Shimada looked distinctly relieved once the woman had retreated back to her company, and the group began to walk towards the technology displays. McCree followed them as closely as he could, moving between pockets of conversation and remaining as subtle as possible. They were moving ever so steadily towards the carpeted hallway that led to the conference rooms and the elevators up to the guest suites. Jesse caught a few words of the conversation—“discussions, “upstairs”, and “more private.”

McCree ran through his list of options. Somehow, he had to get Shimada away from the Vishkar, and somehow, he _also_ had to get Shimada to spill the details of where the shipment was being stored, when it would be moved, and where it would be picked up. Overwatch was monitoring him, and had several operatives stationed around the building ready to strike once he’d gotten intel on the payload. It was crucial, however, that Jesse only called in the big guys once he had that information, otherwise Overwatch couldn’t secure proof of criminal activity, and they would have a whole lot of explaining to do later to the U.N. As tempting as it was, simply charging in and busting the operation wasn’t going to be a gameplan.

Jesse sighed. Currently, his list of options had narrowed down to a single entry: isolate Shimada himself. This was Option Two, because Option One would simply be to follow the entire group upstairs and somehow spy on them for the rest of the evening, which Jesse already knew was gonna be a lost cause. He was no great spy of subtlety.

 _Opción dos_ it was.

Following the group on the main floor was fairly simple; he was dressed like any other attendee at the conference and could blend in with the crowds. Getting to the upper floors without attracting suspicion—that was going to be more difficult.

Luckily, just as Shimada and his lackeys approached the elevator, the Vishkar woman bent in and slipped him an hotel room keycard. Clearly they meant to follow later. Perfect.

Jesse began to study in earnest a fairly lifeless still-life painting that hung opposite the elevator as Shimada pressed the up button. He glanced around. Standard security camera setup, nothing he hadn’t dealt with before. There were a few blind spots he could immediately identify.

McCree waited until they had entered the elevator and the sliding doors had shut behind them, and glanced at the digital number above the elevator, showing the elevator’s progress and intended stopping floor.

Floor number sixty-seven. Oh, fantastic. There was no way he could beat them up there using the stairs, and he didn’t know which suite number they’d be in once they arrived.

Time for some backup.

He ducked into a small alcove of the lobby to avoid the one security camera that allowed a field of vision straight down the hallway, and silently muttered a quick apology to whoever was gonna have to fix this mess later. Probably Morrison. It was going to be Morrison.

“Carson, Lacroix. New plan. We’re gonna have to bust this one early. I’m gonna throw Vishkar under the bus.”

 _“Agent McCree, what have you discovered?”_ Carson’s voice cut-in, anxious.

“No time to explain. I’m movin’. _Now._ Carson, I need you to get into the hotel’s digital elevator mainframe. Shimada’s in Elevator 1-A, heading up. You need to stall their progress to the 67th floor so I can get into position. Lacroix, do me a favour and call it in. Also, I’m gonna need Blue Delta to take out his entourage. Non-lethal only.”

 _“You don’t have the authority,”_ Lacroix hissed. _“Agent McCree, you’re supposed to call it in_ after  _you’ve gained us the intel, or we can’t prove any illegal activity.”_

“Trust me,” Jesse replied. “This is the only chance we’ve got at getting it in the first place. I’m goin’ in now.”

He muted the incoming sound on his comm just before Lacroix could start yelling, and slipped out of the alcove. Time to take an elevator of his own.

He unmuted just as he was passing the eighteenth floor, and Carson’s voice patched back in. _“I did it!”_ she said breathlessly, _“and in a new record time too! Plugged in some fake orders, so Shimada’s about to get the longest elevator ride of his life. You’ll make the floor long before he does. Oh, and Lacroix’s super pissed at you, but Blue Delta’s ready to go, and the strike team is moving in downstairs now. You know, if this doesn’t work out the way you want it to, you’re in deep shit, my friend.”_

Jesse prayed silently. After a minute, the elevator doors slid open noiselessly, and he peeked out. A long hallway, and nobody else in sight. He slid into the stairwell and waited. After a few minutes, he heard the sound of Shimada and his entourage arrive and walk past where he was hidden. Jesse held his breath as they passed. Shimada was saying something Jesse couldn’t fully understand, but he dropped a few words that sounded possibly like names. McCree made the mental note to write them down later. _Hitomi. Takahashi. Genji._

After a short while, he peeked out. The hallway was once again empty, except for Shimada’s three bodyguards standing vigil outside one of the suites. Subtle. There was a massive glass window panel at the end of the hallway too. Great for guests admiring the view. Great for snipers.

He waited. Jesse hoped that Lacroix had deployed the squad in time. And—yep, sure enough, he had—the sudden sound of military grade boots and yelling somewhere downstairs. Blue Delta would be moving in about now too. In three, two—

There was the unmistakable sound of glass breaking as the first sniper took the shot, shattering the window and sending tiny slivers flying into the hallway. Shimada’s men turned to look in almost comical unison, just in time for the second to fire three rounds of sleep darts. They slumped to the ground with three loud thuds. Overwatch’s strike and med teams had been working on the specs for a while, but this was the first time Jesse had seen it in action. A potent dose of tranquilizer, fired at high speed through a sniper rifle. Perfect for non-lethal detainment. They’d wake up in a few hours in reinforced steel handcuffs, with an Overwatch interrogator on the other side of the table.

McCree tapped his earpiece. “This is Agent McCree. Tell Blue Delta I’m real impressed. I’m gettin’ into position now and keeping this comm muted for the rest of the evening. So. If you folks don’t hear from me again, it was a pleasure workin’ with y’all.”

 _“Stay safe,”_ Carson replied.  _“We like you, McCree. Don't get dead.”_

Jesse grinned. Now, if Shimada was smart, he wouldn’t stick his head out of the door but wait for someone, the attacker, to break it down. That way he could easily get into an advantageous position for a counterstrike.

So now was the time for some high quality bullshitting. _Resourceful_ was the word that was written on his file. Yeah, that was the official name for it.

He ran over to Pompadour’s body, slumped over in an awkward position that couldn’t have been good for the guy’s neck, and rifled through his jacket. And yes, just as predicted—a gun in its holster. A pistol, sleek little thing, perfect for concealed carry and not a design he was familiar with. Must be a new model. It would do, nevertheless. And it felt fancy. Pompadour was also carrying a pair of car keys. Jesse pocketed them. He was gonna need those later.

McCree fired three rounds into the ceiling and immediately began hammering on the door. “Shimada! Mister Shimada, your life’s in danger. The hotel’s been compromised, an’ I’ve been sent to escort you out!”

For a long moment, there was silence. Then the door cracked open a fraction. Shimada was eyeing Jesse with a suspicious expression which seemed to grow funnier each time Jesse recalled it later.

There was nothing funny, however, about the muzzle of the gun that was immediately shoved into his face. Jesse threw up his arms in surrender.

“Whoa there!”

“Who the hell are you?” Shimada hissed. Up close, Jesse could see his eyes were very brown, lightly underlined with what looked like kohl. He had an arrogant face, but altogether it wasn’t a bad one. It was quite a good one, actually.

Jesse interrupted him. “I understand your suspicion, sir, but there ain’t no time to lose. The hotel is compromised. I’m with Vishkar, sent to escort you out. We’ve all been set up.” He grabbed Shimada’s forearm, and was surprised at the solid muscle he could feel there. Not just a paper-pusher, whoever this Shimada was, but a real frontline player too. Shimada pulled back his arm instinctively, still holding up the gun. Jesse raised his hands again, putting them behind his head.

“Look, _look_ —I ain’t doing nothing funny with my hands, here. Behind my head, nice and safe. So hear me out. Overwatch is downstairs, somehow they found out about you being here. We’ve all gotta get out.”

“And how do I know you’re not one of them? Why should I trust you?” Shimada retorted. His voice was like steel, cold and piercing sharp.

“You don’t,” Jesse replied honestly. “But currently, your bodyguards are tranq’d, there are a hell of a lot of guys with guns downstairs, and I ain’t shot you yet, so. You might _have_ to, on this one.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, the gun lowered. Shimada nodded at Jesse’s hand. “Drop your gun.”

Jesse dropped his gun immediately. Shimada seemed to like the gesture, but kept his own pointed straight at McCree’s head. He had to point it up, too, due to their height difference, which for some reason made Jesse want to laugh. If he had, it would probably have been the last thing he would have ever done.

“And take out that earpiece.” The earpiece was removed and tossed onto the ground. Jesse even made the effort to crush it under his shoe, as an indication of goodwill. The cost of that would be coming out of his paycheck later.

Shimada merely stared at Jesse for a few moments. He seemed to be debating with himself, conflict written all over his face. Eventually he seemed to realize he didn’t have much of a choice. “Fine. Lead me out. But I do not trust you. If you make any funny moves, I will kill you. Understood?”

“Yessir.”

Shimada pulled out a cellphone from the pocket of his suit with his other hand and quickly dialed a phone number. His eyes never left Jesse’s face. When the person on the other end picked up, he began barking out orders in rapid Japanese. If he had been speaking slower, Jesse might have been able to pick up some of what he was saying—eventually he gave up. Finally, Shimada ended the call, looking thoroughly displeased. Up close, Jesse could see the beginnings of what looked like it was going to be a permanent frown line between his thick brows. Criminality was stressful work. Jesse would know, after all.

“It appears you are telling the truth about Overwatch. They are here. My men will not be able to pick me up from this location. Where does Vishkar plan to take me?”

Jesse stared straight into Shimada’s brown eyes. Lying to this guy’s face seemed to be getting harder each time. He hoped desperately the criminal wouldn’t call his bluff.

“As far as I know, your deal is still on. I can get you to the pickup site and rendezvous with your men when the payload goes. But we gotta be quick. If Overwatch are here, they probably also know about the shipment. If we’re quick though, you could still get out. With your goods an’ all.”

“The shipment.” Shimada nodded briefly. “This is a bad plan. But it looks like the only one I have. You will drive me to the pickup.”

“Yeah uh, thing about that. I don’t know where it is. I don’t know nothin’ about that. I’m just a bodyguard and driver, see.”

The yakuza rolled his eyes. “I will give you directions, fool. And I will keep this gun pointed at you at all times, so do not even _think_ about betraying me.”

“Don’t worry boss,” now Jesse was smiling. “I’m just here to do my job.”

Shimada scowled. And grabbed a handful of Jesse’s pressed suit jacket. “Walk in front of me. Lead me out.”

They moved quickly through the corridor, sidestepping the bodies of Shimada’s henchmen. He frowned as they passed, muttering something in Japanese in a low voice. Jesse couldn’t tell if he was irritated at the situation or irritated that they had all been taken out so quickly, leaving him in the hands of a complete stranger. It was probably both.

Jesse stopped in front of the elevators. Shimada nearly stepped on the back of his shoe.

“What are we doing?” he growled.

McCree neatly reached out and pressed the down button. “Well, I don’t particularly wanna walk down sixty flights of stairs, what about you?”

“I could throw you down,” Shimada muttered. And then: “At least tell me we are not planning to quietly leave this elevator on the ground floor lobby.”

“Okay, I’m not _that_ bad,” Jesse replied, genuinely offended. “We’re gonna stop on the seventh, and then take the back stairs out. I got a car I can use.”

He didn’t have a car, but Shimada didn’t know that. Stealing a car, however, that was something he’d done a fair few times.

The elevator doors slid open and Shimada bustled them inside. The gun was still aimed directly at his temple, and it was getting pretty distracting. Jesse hit the button, and they descended in uncomfortable silence until they reached the seventh floor. Down here, the sounds of sirens and people yelling were a lot louder, but luckily the suite doors remained shut. Either the guests were too afraid to come out, or security had already warned them to stay where they were.

There was another rapid burst of yelling from downstairs, together with the sound of military boots on polished marble floor. Jesse could hear the distinctive sound of Commander Morrison yelling in the distance. That man sure had a good set of lungs on him. At least there wasn’t any gunfire, which mean the Vishkar were cooperating. Probably they thought Overwatch had jumped the gun and wouldn’t be able to find any proof. _And_ , if Jesse screwed up, they wouldn’t have any.

As the two of them hit the main floor and left the stairwell, there came the heavy sound of footsteps running in their direction. Jesse took his chance in the chaos and grabbed Shimada’s wrist, dragging him over to the nearest room. He shouldered open the door, threw Shimada inside, and slammed it shut behind them.

Silence. And then, a single irritated voice from the darkness: “Why have you brought us to a closet?”

“Some fellas were coming, didn’t want to risk it. Besides, I need to know where we’re goin’, before we head out. There might not be time later. Also, sir, you’re gonna have to wait here till I bring the car round.”

“I am _not_ waiting in here for you to get your car. I am staying with you, remember? And so is this gun.” The aforementioned gun was helpfully pressed against his forehead, just in case Jesse had forgotten its presence.

“Okay, okay fine. But where the hell am I driving?”

“What time is it?”

“What?” Jesse asked, rather stupidly.

“What time. Is it.”

“Uh, wait hang on, I can’t see shit in this light…” Jesse squinted at the watch on his wrist. He could barely read it in the dim light. “It’s nearly midnight.”

“Then the shipment is already being moved. You will drive me to its destination. I will give you directions along the way.”

Shit. That’s how he was gonna play it. He was smarter than Jesse had originally thought.

“Okay sir, let’s go. I need to get a car.”

Jesse pressed his ear against the closet door. He couldn’t hear anything. He cracked open the door and peered outside. The hallway was empty for now.

Shimada pushed him out roughly. “Go, you fool!” 

Somewhere along the way, he’d lost the hair tie keeping his low ponytail in place, and his black hair was hanging loose around his shoulders. McCree decided not to mention it. It was a good look. Suited his face shape.

The two men made their way carefully to the entrance to the underground parking lot. Shimada looked distinctly unimpressed.

“So which one of these cars is yours, _bodyguard_?”

“None of ‘em,” Jesse replied bluntly. “Figured I was just gonna steal one or use yours. Which one is it, by the way?”

“I— _what?_ You said you had a car.”

“I’m improvisin’, give me some credit here pal.” Jesse showed the yakuza the keys from his pocket. “Picked these up from your buddy earlier, figured I’d need ‘em.”

Shimada sighed deeply, running a hand over his face. He really wasn’t having a good evening. “The black 2064 Acura NSX. Over there.” He nodded towards a sleek hovermodel a short distance away.

And _wow_ , Jesse had to admit, that was a goddamn beautiful car. But he had no time to admire it. He threw open the car door, and Shimada got in the front passenger seat, gun still firmly pointed at his head.

“Drive.”

“I can’t drive with a goddamn gun pointed at my head, partner.”

“You can and you will.”

“Then why don’t _you_ drive?”

“You said this was your job. Besides, I… can’t.”

“You _can’t drive?_ ”

“I don’t have time to explain myself to you!” Shimada snapped. “Just drive.” He added a word in Japanese at the end, which Jesse guessed was probably not a very nice one, and directed at him. But they didn’t have time to argue. McCree relented.

He was rapidly backing out of the parking lot when the back door to the lobby burst open and a bunch of Overwatch agents piled out onto the concrete, dressed in familiar black and blue. The urge to salute them was nearly irresistible.

The car was the smoothest Jesse had ever driven. If not for the fact they were breaking the inner-city speed limits by a massive amount, and there was an irate yakuza holding him at gunpoint in the front seat, he could have been having a nice enjoyable night time drive.

He paused to consider. Nah, screw that thought. He was still enjoying himself.

In comparison, Shimada was all tension and unrestrained irritation. He sat like a hawk, sitting perched in the front seat with the belt unbuckled and staring out the windshield, scanning his surroundings. He occasionally hissed directions in Jesse’s ear, carefully avoiding main streets, which were now full of police cars and reporters from news stations. His breathing was deep, but slow and evenly paced. Deliberate. Either he really wasn’t that nervous at all, or Shimada just was well practiced at repressing anxiety. 

McCree had to break the thick air of tension somehow. Slowly, so that he wouldn’t startle the man currently holding a gun to his head, he reached out one hand and switched on the radio. Immediately, music started playing at full volume. It was some kind of classics station playing songs from the past millennium. Jesse recognized the song instantly. It was one his  _abuela_  had loved to dance to in their tiny run-down kitchen in Santa Fe while she cooked. The memory of her was fuzzy, the only clear image he could remember being her long white hair braided with bright California poppy. It had been years since he had heard it, but Jesse still knew the words. He began tapping the beat out on the steering wheel.

 _Yeah, yeah, whip it baby, ‘cause you’re fine and you’re mine_  
_And you look so divine_  
_Come and get your love, come and get your—_

Shimada reached out and turned off the station again with a sharp flick of his wrist. Jesse turned and stared at him. 

“Not that music.” was all he said, pushing back the long hair from his face with a pissed off expression. McCree sat back in irritation. Killjoy. They drove in stony silence.

It was only when they hit Emirates Road that McCree realized Shimada was directing him to Al Maktoum airport. He still had the tracker in his shoe. Carson would have picked up on it by now.

First part accomplished.

The only thing now was to somehow get Shimada into custody without the guy getting suspicious, pulling the trigger and unloading the rest of the clip into his lifeless body. McCree glanced at his passenger. Currently, the yakuza was calling somebody on his cellphone, yelling in angry Japanese. His voice grew much more higher pitched when he was pissed off, it seemed. He was distracted.

Jesse closed his eyes briefly and said a quick apology to the car. Then he deliberately drove into the traffic barrier.

When McCree recalled the experience later, he could only ever remember it occurring in slow motion. The car hit the solid metal at full speed and flipped, sending the gun flying out of Shimada’s hand and firing somewhere off in the back seat. Jesse folded both arms across his chest, metal arm in front of the flesh one in order to brace his fall out of the door. He heard Shimada shout something in his ear, heard himself swear loudly in Spanish, and crashed through the glass window on his side. For a few horrible seconds he was airborne, before eventually landing painfully on the dusty ground, rolling a couple of metres through the dirt. He smashed one leg against a rock, felt the screen of his watch break, and knew his entire outfit was ruined.

 _Sorry Tom Ford_ , he thought.

After the dust had settled, he tried to shift his legs and felt a stabbing pain down his right knee. Maybe he’d smashed it. Thankfully, it was nothing compared to the pain when he’d lost his arm. He’d probably keep it. He briefly wondered what was going to happen to Ms. Vaswani. Maybe she was going to be alright. Maybe _he_ was gonna be alright. Maybe Shimada was dead. Maybe he was alive.

It was a lot of maybes.

Jesse closed his eyes. It had been one hell of an evening.

 

* * *

 

He woke up later in a hospital bed in what he knew to be Overwatch’s Dubai facility. His formal dresswear was gone, replaced by a thin medical gown that thankfully covered his bare ass. The air conditioning was running at full blast and the room was freezing. In the dim light he could see Strike Commander Morrison and First Agent Lacroix murmuring quietly in the corner.

Jack turned at the sound of Jesse stirring. “Ah, you’re awake.” He was dressed informally in a dull grey t-shirt and combat pants, but his tactical visor was still over his right eye.

Jesse saluted weakly. “Sir.” He couldn’t feel any pain. Either he had been miraculously lucky with his injuries, or he was currently doped up on pain meds.

“You,” began Agent Lacroix. “Are a goddamn _menace_ , Agent McCree.”

“Yeah, well.” Jesse coughed. “That’s what you get for hiring an ex-con, I suppose. What happened?”

Morrison folded his arms over his chest. “Well, you’ll be relieved to hear the payload was secured. We managed to intercept it at Al Maktoum airport before the Shimada could fly out of there. Arrested the whole bunch of them too, plus the ones at the hotel. Helix Security was particularly helpful once we’d explained the situation to them, but now they want an official commendation for aiding in Overwatch business. It’s fine. I’ll give it to them. As for Vishkar, well. We’ve got the ones we can safely tie to the shipment in a bunch of nice interrogation rooms downstairs. As a whole though Vishkar is claiming the corruption was an isolated case and not company-wide; the work of a few individuals rather than a full blown conspiracy. I don’t particularly believe it, but we’ve only got evidence to prosecute the handful of them, so I guess they’re getting the benefit of the doubt this time. That’s what Overwatch is, I suppose. You get as many bad guys as you can, and you keep on going, even though the odds are against you.” He sounded utterly exhausted. Jesse supposed it had been a long evening for him as well.

“What about Shimada?” Jesse croaked. His throat felt like sandpaper.

Lacroix went to hand Jesse a paper cup of cool water from a beside table. Jack sighed. “Now, this is where it gets really interesting. We picked you up on the side of the road after you decided to crash, which was a really idiotic idea, by the way, and don’t think I’m not going to report it to Gabe—uh, Captain Reyes after this. But Shimada wasn’t there. We have no idea what happened to him. No body. Blood, which was definitely his, but he was gone. He’s the only one we couldn’t find.”

“How?” Jesse asked. “What _—_ he just _walked away_?”

“I don’t rightly know,” the commander replied. “But it seems we underestimated exactly which Shimada we were dealing with last night.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Lacroix asked.

Morrison threw something down on the hospital bed. McCree picked it up with unsteady fingers. It was his red pocket square. “What…?”

“What we know about the Shimada is limited, and you were given only a portion of what we actually know in your debrief. However, I think it’s time you were told the extent of it. The old man, Shimada himself, is a real powerhouse. It’s a tight knit family business, dealing in illegal arms and the like.”

“I already know that, sir,” Jesse said.

“I know you do, son. What we didn’t tell you, however, is that the Shimada are also extremely competitive. Generally, succession originally falls to the eldest child of the family head. But this isn’t necessarily always the case. If this heir proves to be weak or unsuitable, they’ll be quickly taken out. This is unconfirmed, but we’ve heard rumours from our agents stationed in Japan of yearly competitions between all the candidates vying for the top positions. Anyone who wishes to challenge the current heir is free to do so, provided they’re willing to risk death. It’s a bloody business, and if the original heir manages to keep their position and then succeed, they’re rightly feared.”

Jesse nodded. “That seems about right. Deadlock was kinda the same. If you couldn’t stay top dog, you were taken out pretty quick. So, Overwatch has some names after all? Which Shimada was I dealing with?”

“Shimada’s eldest son and reigning heir apparent since his childhood. Shimada Hanzo.”

“Damn,” Jesse breathed. “So he’s a real tough nut, huh?”

Jack nodded at the pocket square in Jesse’s hand. “He left you a message, so clearly you made some kind of impression on him too.”

McCree opened up the piece of cloth. Scrawled onto the fabric in ballpoint pen was a message written in Japanese.

一寸先は闇。

“I can’t read Japanese,” Jesse replied. Shimada probably knew that he couldn’t either.

“Neither can I, so I asked Kimiko. Laughed for a solid minute, then asked the context. I told her.”

“But what does it mean. _Sir_.” McCree asked through his teeth. He was skirting the border of insubordination with the Strike Commander, but this Hanzo, whoever he was, was clearly having a laugh at Jesse’s expense.

“It means, ‘expect the unexpected.’”

 

* * *

 

 **FOUR WEEKS EARLIER**   **  
** **23:02. LAS VEGAS, NEVADA.**

 

Jesse slid his datapad out of his pocket. It was a warm night in Vegas, and he could feel the stickiness of drying sweat beneath his collar and under his arms. He glanced up at the holonews digital billboard.

 **TOP VISHKAR OFFICIALS FOUND GUILTY OF CORRUPTION AND TRAFFICKING OF ILLEGAL ARMS TO KNOWN JAPANESE CRIME SYNDICATE.** **VISHKAR ISSUES STATEMENT CONDEMNING OVERWATCH INVOLVEMENT**

He checked his incoming messages. There was one from Reyes.

 

 **From:** user_id_2665464  
**To:** user_id_3323393  
**Sent:** [CLASSIFIED]  
**Subject:** detail_Vegas9757

I’m still recoiling from the secondhand embarrassment of the Dubai affair, so don’t give me that lip. Remember, this is a Blackwatch op, not an Overwatch one. Overwatch you can fuck up and only complete half the assignment and Morrison’ll cover your ass when he files the report later. This one, you’re on your own. And if you decide to crash a car at high speed again and knock yourself unconscious, I can’t and won’t be bailing you out. I’ll let you bleed to death at the side of the road. With love.

 

“Love you too, boss,” Jesse muttered into the darkness. He fingered Peacekeeper, hanging at his belt. Loaded and ready. It was time to bust a con.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Redbone - Come And Get Your Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nkr77jE5GFY)


	3. like fall we are the prophets

♝

“If the heart is empty, the rest will soon abandon you too.” —Ana Amari

 

* * *

 

 **PRESENT DAY** **  
** **06:05. MOSCOW, RUSSIA.**

 

The first thing Jesse McCree realized when he woke up was that somehow he wasn’t dead.

The second thing he realized, as his brain began to re-register the feeling of hot blood flowing back to cold and stiff limbs, was that he still had all of them. Well, all of the limbs he previously had possession of, anyway. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation anymore: waking up on a hospital hoverbed to the sound of his own heartbeat beeping steadily on an electrocardiogram. One of those little things you got used to when you worked in covert ops. Injuries were common. Deaths were even more common. Blackwatch had a high turnover rate.

But Jesse. Jesse McCree still drew breath.

He attempted to take in a deep lungful of air, and nearly choked at the sudden pain racing down his rib cage and spine. It felt like somebody had taken hold of his guts and squeezed viciously.

Well, Jesse  _nearly_ still drew breath, apparently.

Taking inventory of his small appendages, he settled for small, shallow breaths instead. In, out. In, out. Still painful, but the most useful thing he could do in the circumstances. Toes, wiggled. On both feet. All ten present and correct. Right hand, still in possession of all his fingers. Left hand—

His prosthesis was gone.

In a mild fit of panic, Jesse scanned the room, where he relaxed when he spotted it sitting casually on the bedside table. There was a note stuck onto the brushed metal on the front, but it was too far away to read from the bed. Stretching his neck to try and read the words on the paper, a sudden cramp sent him settling back onto the pillows, hissing out between his teeth. He’d look at it later. When he got up.

The sound of a boot shifting on polished linoleum floor interrupted his thoughts, and McCree turned his head to see a figure standing near the door, arms crossed. Typical Blackwatch gear: heavy kevlar-mix combat pants, tight around the legs but fabric stretchy enough for increased movement and flexibility. Pauldrons and bulletproof breastplate over a sweatshirt of dull grey and black, designed for maximum night camouflage. Unarmed, with no ammunition on the belt. The getup almost obscured him completely in the dark room. The figure flipped on the light switch next to his head, and Jesse shut his eyes instinctively at the sharp brightness, squinting them open after a few moments of blinking furiously. His eyes were slightly watery, but he could see the figure was wearing a black beanie cap on his head.

It was Reyes. Somehow, it was always Reyes.

Jesse held his breath and waited for his commanding officer to speak. This routine was well worn by now between them, like pulling the trigger of a gun grown warm in your hand: if Jesse woke up in a hospital bed with no one but his commanding officer beside him, he knew it had been a lucky break. A narrow break. Reyes never did this unless it had been serious. After an age, the Blackwatch commander opened his mouth.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t court martial you for sheer stupidity.”

Jesse remained silent. He couldn’t think anything smart to say.

Reyes sucked in a deep inhale of air and exhaled back out through his nostrils. “You know, when I ask you a question, I expect a goddamn answer out of your mouth,  _pendejo_.”

He was frustrated, that much was obvious, but somehow, impossibly, he didn’t sound nearly as angry as Jesse had been expecting him to be. Jesse licked his lips, finding them cracked and dry. He could probably use a lipbalm right about now. Or a glass of water. Of course, Reyes wasn’t going to fetch him either of those things, even if he summoned up enough audacity to ask.

“I don’t got no answer, sir. It was supposed to be a recon job.” He replied finally.

“I _know_ that much. Recon. That’s why you went in with no backup, using your own goddamn transport that could have been traced back to you, waving your gun around like a fool. So. Recon. Care to tell me how my finest agent ends up bleeding out in a field in Russia with arrow wounds in his thigh and gut?”

“Well, It wasn’t recon.”

“Oh ho, no shit, cowboy. So what happened?”

Jesse glanced around the room. “This one secure, sir?”

Reyes scoffed. “Who do you take me for? Yes, I secured it.”

McCree took a deep breath. “He was there. My target. Somehow he knew I’d be there that night. He’d been there four days, waitin’ for me. Lured me straight in, nearly got me too. Damned good shot for the weapon he was usin’. Thought I was a goner.”

Reyes sighed deeply, and ran one hand over his mustache and beard. He stared up at the paneled ceiling, old and slightly water stained. “Well, I’m not gonna beat around the fucking bush. We’re in the shit, McCree. You tell me this assassin was waitin’ for you, so now he knows what you are, and what your op is. There was no body next to yours when we found you, which means he’s still out there somewhere, and you’d best be prepared because now he’s made it _very_ clear he’s coming after your ass.”

Jesse shifted on the bed and winced. “Just my luck. Two assassins comin’ after each other. That happen often, sir?”

“You’d be surprised how many stories I’ve heard of it. ‘Course, they was just stories, so I can’t verify them all, but still.”

“Figures. How long have I been out of it? Don’t tell me I’ve been in some kind of coma and I’ve missed somethin’ important, ‘cause that’ll really spoil my day.”

“Relax, kid, you only been out about four days. The wonders of modern medicine. But enough of that. It’s time we got down to business. I assume the target saw your face?”

“That’s correct.”

“But you ain’t seen his?”

“Nope. Never got a clear sightline. Fucked up real good, didn’t I?”

Reyes grimaced, and sat down on the corner of the bed, arms crossed. The hoverbed dipped alarmingly at the uneven weight of the two bodies. He lifted one hand and stroked his beard again, a thinking gesture.

“Could you identify him at all? Height, weight, hair colour, anythin’? You even sure it was a man?”

“I’m about 98% certain it was either a man or a masculine figure, sir. Height… not a particularly tall fella. Weight… no idea, but they was top heavy, typical of an archer. We already knew that though, thanks to those charming arrows he left behind in me. Hair colour… not a goddamn clue. It was dark, and I never got a good look. Could be fuckin’ green, for all I know.”

Jesse paused, and gently patted at the blankets covering his stomach. He was feeling pretty hungry. Reyes noticed the gesture.

He shook his head. “I know it’s shit, but despite your disadvantage, you can’t back out of this one, McCree. I know you know this. You’re compromised for as long as it takes you to shut down this  _cabrón_. Before we might have had some time; there was no time limit. Now we gotta move like the fucking devil. I can’t spare anyone else on this one. Worst case scenario, he puts two and two together and brings classified info about you or Blackwatch to other intel dealers, and then we got a _real_ fuckin’ problem on our hands, because as far as the public’s concerned, you’re just an Overwatch agent. J. M., the shining Southwestern boy.”

“I’m sorry sir,” Jesse coughed. Reyes looked over, and his expression seemed to soften.

“Nah, don’t worry about it kid. We’ll figure it out. Well… _you’ll_ figure it out. You ain’t my best field agent for nothin’.”

“Why sir,” Jesse grinned, “anyone would think you had a soft spot for me.”

Reyes laughed. “Not on your life. I just can’t spare the time or resources to replace your flat ass. Wasted too much effort on you, now you gotta return the favour.”

“Speakin’ of favours…” McCree began, “how did you find me, sir? I thought I was out in the cold on this one.”

Reyes smiled, all teeth. “Told you I was monitorin’ it, didn’t I? I weren’t lyin’. I tell you I got an eye on it, I got an eye on it. Had the team out an hour before you even missed your check-in. And—even sent somebody out to fetch your fucking old ass bike and do cleanup of all the incriminating evidence you left behind, you’re fuckin’ welcome, _agent_.”

“Shit. Didn’t realize you’d go to all that trouble just for me, sir.”

Reyes leaned in close, and McCree heard the sound of his own breath hitch in response, the way it always did whenever his boss got particularly near. His commanding officer smelled of black coffee, smoke, and underneath, faintly, the smell of expensive cologne, something McCree couldn’t quite place.

His voice was soft. “When you shit the bed, McCree, I’ve got the fantastic job of making sure the smell don’t reach the upper floors. Besides, I hope you ain’t forgotten what I told you all those years ago.”

Jesse swallowed. “...I ain’t forgotten, sir.”

“Damn straight you haven’t. I give you a life outside of maximum lockup, you give me that shooting arm. That was our original deal. You still owe me a few more decades, kid, and you ain’t dying till I’ve collected.”

He stood up and headed towards the door. “You’ve got to take him out first, McCree. Take. Him. Down. And  _don’t_ fuck up again.”

“Affirmative.”

“Also, that note over there says there’s delicate internal tech that needs to be fixed before they can screw that thing back onto your arm. They don’t have someone who can do that here, so I’m sendin’ you to Belgrade to meet up with Torbjörn, who’s over there for some reason. Who knows what that man gets up to. Once that’s done, I’ll also send over your flight itinerary from there.”

Now Jesse was interested. “Got a lead on the assassin?”

“Not a lead. More a hunch.” The medbay door slid open noiselessly. Reyes paused in the doorway. “I’ll let the nurses know you’re awake and have someone send up some breakfast for your useless ass.”

“Why gee, thank you sir. You know if they got any decent coffee in this place?”

“Don’t get your hopes up. I wouldn’t count on it. Oh, and McCree?”

Jesse sat up straighter, despite the pain in his ribs. “Sir?”

“Amari’s here, if you wanna speak to her.” The door closed behind him, and Jesse could hear the sound of his boots growing fainter down the hallway.

McCree slumped back down onto the pillows and let out a long exhale of breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

_Dodging bullets, McCree._

 

* * *

 

Ana Amari was sitting in a quiet rec room on the Moscow base when Jesse found her. She was dressed in casual civilian clothes; himself in a pale blue hospital gown, posture awkward due to the weight imbalance of his left and right sides and the faint throbbing pain in his thigh. She looked up as he appeared in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe in what he hoped was a casual position.

“Howdy ma’am.”

“Jesse!” she exclaimed, coming up to embrace him and stopping just before she reached the doorway. She frowned at his elbow. “What did you do to your arm this time,  _ya ibni_?”

Jesse shrugged. “Jus’ regular damage. I’m fine, ma’am.”

She raised one straight, dark eyebrow. “Don’t lie to me, it’s unbecoming. And rude.”

The years had only made her more beautiful, McCree thought. Her hair was mostly all grey now, but she still kept it long, and her brows and makeup were routinely perfect. He’d never seen her look anything but stunning. He didn’t think she could ever be any less.

“Sorry ma’am, I just. You get used to lying, I guess. Working in this business. Shoulda known better than to lie to you.”

She frowned up at him. “More Blackwatch?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

Rolling her eyes, she took hold of his bicep gently. “Come here, Jesse. Spend some time with an old woman, would you?”

Her tone was light and playful, and McCree laughed. “Spendin’ time with you is an honour, ma’am. And you ain’t old.”

“I  _am_ old, Jesse. Well, getting there anyway.”

“Ma’am,” Jesse said sincerely, “the day I acknowledge you as old will be the day I delete my own collection of John Wayne movies.” He meant it, too.

Ana threw her head back and laughed, a rich deep sound that reminded him of the pealing of church bells from his youth. She steered Jesse towards a small chair beside the window that looked out onto the Moscow urban landscape. “Stay here and rest those legs. Should you even be out of bed?”

“Not strictly, ma’am. Got a nasty wound on one thigh and between my ribs. They pumped me full of a biotic stream, the usual stuff, but you know how it is when the newly grown skin is still tender and delicate.  _But—_ ” he drew out the syllable “—a little birdie told me you was here, and I would never pass up the opportunity to see your elegant self.”

She sniffed. “Charmer. Stay here, I’m boiling some water for tea and you’re going to join me.”

“I still don’t like tea!” Jesse called at her retreating back, as she disappeared into the kitchenette attached to the rec room.

“And I still don’t care!” she yelled back.

McCree took the time to study his surroundings. A quiet, unassuming room; walls painted off-white and a few comfy chairs and plants in the corner. A holoset, currently switched on and playing Atlas News on mute with closed captions. Out the window, the dawn was breaking over the city; early morning fog dissipating as the sun began its ascent up into the sky.

A few minutes later, Ana reappeared with a full teapot and a pair of mugs hooked expertly on her fingers. She set them down on the table in front of him, and Jesse lifted the lid of the pot and took a good sniff. She swatted his face away with one hand, muttering, “get out of there,  _ya hayawan_.”

Jesse grinned and leaned back. “So. What brings a fine lady like yourself to this part of town?”

She ignored the flirtation, as she always did. “I’m having a brief stopover here; I’m on my way for assignment in Tel Aviv with Jack. Then I heard you’d gone and done yourself in, _yet again_.”

“Yet again.” He took a wild guess on the tea. “Something flowery?”

“ _Karkadé_ , good for the heart.” She poured him a mug of the red tisane, still pale since Jesse could never drink it too strong, and leaned back in her chair. “I’m very angry with you, you know.”

McCree sat back quickly from where he had been sniffing at his mug. “Ma’am?”

“You haven’t spoken to Fareeha in a long time. I know, because she told me.”

Jesse made a face. “She hasn’t exactly messaged me either. I guess that’s what happens when one of you works in the Egyptian army and the other’s in… other stuff.”

Ana poured herself a mug and took a sip of her tea. “Ridiculous. The twenty first century and neither of you can find ten minutes to send a message to each other.”

He could physically _feel_ the maternal judgment bearing down on him.

“...sorry ma’am, I’ll send her something.”

“You should. And you should tell her Overwatch isn’t worth joining. Last time I called it was all she would talk about.” Ana sighed, and set her mug carefully down on the table, warming her hands around the sides. Her nail polish was slightly chipped. “The more I tell her, the more it seems she’s resolute in not listening. I don’t know, maybe it would have more effect if it came from you.”

Jesse raised his mug and took a sip, burning his tongue on the hot liquid. He made a face and set it back down again. “With all due respect, ma’am, I ain’t the best person to be givin’ any life advice. Especially not to your daughter.”

“No, but you’re one of the only people she listens to.”

Jesse shrugged. “I guess.”

Ana paused and studied his face for a moment. “You alright, Jesse? You seem down. Nope, let me guess, more classified business I’m not allowed to ask about, as per one Captain Gabriel Reyes.” She rolled her eyes dramatically.

Jesse winked. “Well… I _guess_ could tell you ma’am. But then, if I did, well… then I’d have to kill ya.”

She smirked at the reference. “I’d like to see you try, honestly.”

He rose to the challenge. “I’m not so sure, ma’am. Close quarters, I hear snipers don’t generally do so well.”

Her eyes flashed dark over the rim of her mug. “And I hear that snipers don’t have to have a rifle on them in order to whack immature boys over the head with their sandals.”

She’d got him. “Touché.” The tea was actually pretty good, not that he’d admit it. Then she’d never allow him to drink coffee again. Jesse set down his mug.

In response, Ana leaned in over the table and took McCree’s hand in her own, feeling the lines of his calloused palm with her own worn hands. Both their hands were figuratively stained with blood, but hers only felt soft and clean to him.

“I mean it though,” she murmured quietly, low enough so that none of the audio sensors in the room would be able to pick up her words. “I know you can’t tell me everything, but tell me as much as you can. I worry about you,  _habibi._ Too much.”

Jesse flinched and tried to pull away. Ana gripped his hand even tighter. He faltered under the weight of her sharp, dark eyes.

“It’s…” he struggled for the right words. “It’s this job, I guess. I’ve been doing it for years now, and sometimes I just. Think. ‘bout the stuff I do. Sometimes I feel like… this is all I’m good for. That’s why I’m here. And this new op I got it’s like… I don’t know. Even the boss seems stressed.”

Ana muttered something indiscernible under her breath. Jesse raised one eyebrow. She shook her head.

“When you first came to us, I told Gabriel, I did. I said ‘this isn’t a good idea, Gabe, what you’re proposing.’ But he assured me it was the best thing, under the circumstances. And who was I to argue? It wasn’t my division. But still, I argued.”

“You wanted to see the criminal locked up with the rest of his gang?”

“No,” she said, with an undercurrent of pure steel. “I didn’t want to see a boy barely older than my Fareeha blackmailed into working for Overwatch.”

“Oh.” He felt rather foolish, balking under her piercing gaze. Ana released her grip on his hand and picked up her mug again, turning to look out the window at the city, slowly waking under the haze of a misty morning turned pink by the sunrise.

“This new mission. Is it something you’ve never been asked to do before?”

“Something like that, I guess.” What could he tell her, really?

She seemed to pick up on his hesitation. “Maybe that was a bad question. Fine, let me ask you something else. Are you scared of it?”

There was a long moment of silence. In his head, McCree came up with a thousand different answers: some serious, some making light of the situation, some false.

He didn’t want to lie to her. Not to Ana. He couldn’t lie to her.

“I suppose I am,” he managed finally. “Shit, I didn’t think I could feel like that, anymore, not with the things I’ve seen. But yeah, maybe I am. Is that… unprofessional of me?” He stared down at the steaming mug, watching the few hibiscus petals float aimlessly around in the tea.

Ana didn’t turn around from the window, but merely said something in Arabic.

McCree leaned in closer. “Pardon?”

“If the heart is empty, the rest will soon abandon you too,” she translated. “Arabic proverb.”

“...I’m not sure I understand.”

She turned back to face him. “Drink your tea,  _habibi_. You need it.”

He drank obediently as she watched. When he’d finished, she filled her own mug back up to full, emptying the pot.

She nodded at her tea, now darker in colour. “The more the tea steeps, the richer the colour and taste get. Sometimes I feel as though that’s how we work, in Overwatch. The years go by, and we learn more about ourselves, form relationships, make a mark on the world.  _Inshallah,_ a positive one. But—” she smiled at him sadly, “—if you leave it too long, it stews and becomes bitter.”

Jesse smiled back, a worn expression they both knew she didn’t believe for a minute.

“Are you a good man, Jesse McCree?”

He blinked at the unexpected question. “I don’t… I, uh…”

Something beeped suddenly, and Ana pulled out a cellphone from the pocket of her blazer jacket. “Ah, that’ll be Fareeha now. I said I would call her.”

Jesse stood up from the chair stiffly, wincing at the pain in his leg. “I’ll leave you to it then, ma’am. Thank you for the tea and the conversation.”

He had almost reached the doorway when she called his name once more, softly.

McCree didn’t turn around. “Yes ma’am?”

“When you figure it out, let me know.”

 

* * *

 

He boarded the flight to Belgrade three days later with an assistant technician from Overwatch medical. The assistant was a young, cheerful woman who introduced herself as García, Lyanna (“yes, Lyanna like from that terrible old show, my parents were  _obsessed_ ”), who would not shut up about the chance to work under Dr. Angela Ziegler, and meeting the famous Agent McCree, oh, what luck!

Jesse nodded politely and humoured her for a while with details from a few of his early Overwatch missions, the ones that had gone on public record. Luckily for him, the flight was a short one. McCree spent the majority of it devouring a packet of sour watermelon slices and rubbing at his thigh through the bandages. At the airport, they discovered Chief Engineer Lindholm had sent a hovercar for them. Jesse hadn’t been to Belgrade before, but the car had darkened windows for privacy, so it seemed he wouldn’t be getting a fantastic view now either. Lyanna had picked up on his somewhat dour mood, so she kept her mouth shut for most of the ride to the safehouse, which turned out to be a modestly sized townhouse with a basement, now transformed into a workshop.

Torbjörn Lindholm was a man of small stature but indomitable ego, and most of the time rightly so. Jesse first had the pleasure of working with him after losing the arm, when the engineer had sent in some designs via Angela for a fully functional prosthetic that would allow for heavy duty combat operations and yet maintain the fine motor control needed for a sharpshooter. Angela had snatched the designs and gleefully delivered an optimistic prognosis. Once she’d managed to wire up the robotic to his nervous system, Torbjörn’s design would work perfectly for Jesse’s use.

McCree had been impressed. Even more impressed when he’d messaged back and asked if the engineer could manufacture a brushed metal engraving into the design of the piece, purely aesthetic in motivation, and Torbjörn had been all too happy to oblige.

Said engineer was currently sitting at a work table littered with tools and pieces of wiring, a half empty cup of black coffee near his elbow looking like it was two seconds away from being knocked onto the floor. Lyanna hovered near the basement door nervously as Jesse strode down the stairs into the workshop.

“Torbjörn! How are you doin’, old man?”

Torbjörn looked up and smiled wide. “Jesse! Damn, you look rough, son!” His elbow moved backwards as he threw his arms open in welcome, and McCree and Lyanna both watched in knowing horror as the coffee cup flew through the air and landed with a loud shatter on the concrete floor.

Torbjörn glanced over his shoulder. “Eh, don’t worry about that, shit was cold anyway. So! Let me look at that arm of yours, kid. The hell happened to you?”

“The average scrapes and bruises, ya know,” Jesse replied mildly, and gestured for Lyanna to come in. “This young lady’s Ms Lyanna, she’s from medical. Standin’ in for Angela, ‘cause she’s apparently still in Singapore.”

“Yes she is,” Torbjörn muttered. “Had me up all night asking me all sorts of questions over holochat about mechanisms for replacing inner organs. I said, ‘dammit Angie, now what the hell you be needin’ my expertise for, I’m an engineer and an armourer, not a doctor! I don’t know shit about people organs!’ And then she just asked me more cryptic questions about alloys so eh, I mean, I have no idea what the hell she’s up to. Hullo miss.”

The last was directed to Lyanna, who smiled politely and shook Torbjörn’s hand. Jesse could see her visibly wince at the strength of his powerful grip, and stifled a snort.

“Now,” Torbjörn began, as he swivelled back around in his chair, “let’s see what the hell you’ve done to my baby.”

“It’s not your baby, Torb,” Jesse said. “It’s my arm.”

“It’s  _your_ arm, birthed from  _my_ brain, and I’m the only one who gets to know how it works, so sit down and shaddap while me and Miss Lyanna here can fix what ya done to it.”

“Just call me Lyanna, please.”

The next few hours were spent in relative boredom as Torbjörn mended the internal wiring and delicate little gears of Jesse’s prosthetic, Jesse opting to make himself a gigantic rubber band ball from scraps, which he tossed at Torbjörn’s head a few times, landing the shots, much to the engineer’s annoyance. Lyanna seemed entranced by the precision of his work and kept commenting how it was  _just_ like watching Dr. Ziegler perform surgery. Torbjörn laughed and muttered, “and better too, because there’s no blood or risk of ‘em dying!” which shut her up again pretty quickly.

Eventually the time came for Lyanna to reaffix the arm to the stump of his elbow, which always involved a fair amount of agony as the nerves were attached. McCree grit his teeth, flashed Lyanna a wolfish smile, and swallowed down the groans of pain. Torbjörn pulled out a strip of disgusting leather from somewhere in his work apron.

“Want something to bite on, kid?”

“Nah,” McCree smiled, and bit the inside of his lip. “I’m good.” He would have rather bitten through his own tongue than put that in his mouth, honestly.

Forty-five excruciating minutes later they were finished, and Jesse really needed a shower and a change of shirt. Lyanna shot him a worried glance.

“You alright, Agent McCree?”

“I’m fine, I need to just rest a little. Gotta catch a flight to somewhere in the mornin’.”

“More of that Blackwatch business eh?” interrupted Torbjörn, who was finally bringing out a broom to clean up the ceramic shards on the floor. “Or uh, oops. Was I not supposed to mention that?”

“What’s Blackwatch?” Lyanna asked, at the same time Jesse said “Torb you fuckin’—”

They both stopped. Torbjörn looked up from the mess on the floor.

“Well fuck me,” he said.

Jesse rolled his eyes. “Blackwatch is… uh, well. We do some of the more… delicate work for Overwatch. But it’s not something most people know about, and  _someone—_ ” he looked directly at Torbjörn “—is supposed to keep their mouth shut around the lesser ups. Sorry, Lyanna.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” she said quickly, and flung her fist over her heart. It was heartwrenchingly sincere. “I promise.”

McCree gave her a wan smile. He’d have to message Commander Morrison later that night and tell him she was compromised. They couldn’t risk Blackwatch’s existence being made widely known. Overwatch would give her a mighty fine deal on the severance pay and Morrison could get her a new position at any hospital she liked, but she’d lose her place working under Angela. He cursed Torbjörn under his breath. Mouthy Swedish engineers.

“I gotta sleep some of this off,” he muttered, brushing past them. “Where’s the bedrooms in this place?”

“There’s a room up the stairs, first door on the left,” Torbjörn replied. “Your suitcase is next to the door. You’ve got the second best bed, ‘cause I took the first.”

Jesse unpacked and stepped into the tiny shower in the communal bathroom, letting the hot water run down the skull brushed into the metal of his robotic arm. A skull, chosen to replace the one that used to be tattooed there on the skin. He closed his eyes and ran the pad of this thumb down the engraving, feeling the heat of the bathroom rise around him. He was quickly getting dizzy with the steam.

Grimacing, he fumbled around for some toiletries, realising that he’d left his own in his suitcase on the bed. Standard safehouse issue, similar to hotel fare: small bottle of shampoo, one of conditioner, a tiny wrapped bar of soap. They all smelled lightly of vanilla. Vanilla was nice. A fairly neutral scent.

Jesse washed his hair with his right hand and allowed the left one to hang down limply at his side. It was always sore and twitchy the first few hours of reinstallment, and he didn’t feel like accidentally scraping metal fingertips against his scalp. He had found that out the hard way one of the first few times, and had wandered into the medbay with blood dripping from his forehead. Angela had taken one look at him and his awkward grin and gone running for the gauze and medical tape.

Hair still wet, body scrubbed vigorously with his towel, Jesse threw himself onto the bed. The mattress was old, springs making an alarmingly loud noise in the darkness of the small bedroom.

One of his datapads beeped, and McCree sighed as he remembered he had to message Morrison. As a Blackwatch agent, McCree had two sets of personal tech that it was  _imperative_ (Reyes’ own words) he keep separate at all times, lest encrypted information be accidentally leaked around the organization.

All of McCree’s tech was coloured coded for convenience, due to the fact he’d grabbed the wrong one an embarrassing amount of times in the past. Once, in a memory he always remembered with a fond wince, he’d sent an entire encrypted set of emails to most of the Overwatch climatology team by mistake. Reyes had done damage control in an impressively short amount of time, but the disciplinary action McCree had undergone later had been long. Excruciatingly long.

Eventually he’d just ordered himself coloured cases. Black and red, for Blackwatch, and blue and gold, like everything Overwatch. Two datapads, for agents who worked both sides. Agents like himself.

He pressed his thumb against the lockscreen of the blue and gold model.

“Good evening, Agent McCree,” came the robotic voice of Etta, his personal Overwatch tech AI. “It is nice to hear from you again. Trouble sleeping?”

“You could say that, darlin’. I need to send a message to Strike Commander Morrison.”

“Confirmed. Voice typing or self-input?”

“I’ll write it myself darlin’, doncha worry.”

Etta’s voice faded out, and Jesse quickly typed in the message, feeling more and more scummy by the second. Lyanna didn’t deserve what she was being given.

None of them ever did.

 

 **From:** McCree_Jesse  
**To:**  Morrison_Jack  
**Sent:**  23:12  
**Subject:**  Agent Compromised

Hey sir, got some bad news for u. Compromised agent from medical. García, Lyanna, not sure of her age. Assistant technician. Angela will know the one. Wasn’t her fault, Torb fucked it up. Give her a good sendoff as per the usual. Somewhere nice.

-McCree

 

-

 

He pressed send, and Etta’s voice came back in.

“Will that be all, Agent McCree?”

“That’ll be all, Miss Etta.  _Gracias_.”

“ _Buenas noches_.” Etta switched herself off.

He reached out for the new Blackwatch model on top of the case, the replacement for the one he’d lost in Russia. Jesse entered in his login info. Blackwatch tech was always so much colder and clinical than the other stuff. Of course, they had to be a lot more covert and discreet, since none of their ops would ever see the light of day, but still. It was mighty unfriendly. Like there was no soul inside them.

 

 **LOGIN:**  user_id_3323393  
**PASSWORD:**  ********

 

“Agent ID Confirmed.” Jesse had no idea if the Blackwatch AI had a personality like Etta. He’d never inquired.

The message popped up as soon as he was in.

 

 **From:**  user_id_2665464  
**To:**  user_id_3323393  
**Sent:**  [CLASSIFIED]  
**Subject:**  flight(s) + new job

I know you’re busy af rn, but I’ve something small for you. A gift, if you will.

Remember that Bratva guy we dealt with back in ‘60? I know you do. Guess who went back on their word. So. Time’s up. Deal with him. Easy op, to get you back in the swing of things. I think you’ll enjoy this one. Everything has been cleared and sorted. You just need to do the deed yourself.

Attached is your flight plan and tickets. We even found money in the budget to give your ass a decent seat, ain’t I nice.

 

-

 

“Yeah, for a two hour flight,” Jesse grinned. There was a ticket to Istanbul attached for the morning for a ‘Mr Cassidy’, and then one to Berlin for after that under the name of ‘Moss’. He’d been to both places before, but it had been years since he’d been back.

He went to bed in fairly high spirits, ignoring the pain in his arm, ignoring the voices in his head, ignoring the feeling of anxiety churning around in his belly. He was an agent. He’d been an agent for years now. Reyes trusted him on this op. Everything was going to be _fine_.

After enough time, eventually, he drifted off to sleep, praying for a dreamless night. Of course, it was a futile hope.

In his dreams, he was devoured by a great red dragon. Jaws open and snarling, it tore open the sky and swept down towards him, moving straight through the walls of the house on an unstoppable rampage. Despite the vastness of its open mouth, it emitted no sound, as if he was watching a film on mute. Nothing could stop its terrifying descent, and as McCree stared wordlessly down its throat he saw fire and char and brimstone, like the gates of hell. Dream-Jesse opened his mouth to scream, but an arrow appeared from the mouth of the beast, piercing through his neck and stifling his cries.

Jesse woke up in a panic and blindly scrambled around for his gun, falling off the bed with a loud thump and banging his head against the frame. He stayed there for a few moments, face pressed into the dusty wooden floor. Every time he closed his eyes he could see that infernal dragon.

 _Screw this,_ he thought. _I’m making myself a drink._

It was only after he’d downed most of an entire pot of black coffee and liberally spiked it with Torbjörn’s not very well hidden stash of vodka that he fell back into a dreamless, unrestful sleep. The dragon, thankfully, left him alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Etta Place](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Etta_Place)   
>  [Butch Cassidy](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Butch_Cassidy)   
>  [Llewelyn Moss](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/No_Country_for_Old_Men)


	4. like winter we are cruel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Brief warning for referenced sex between two parties:** both parties were of legal age, and both fully consented, but the situation in which it occurred is still a bit skeevy, so do bear that in mind.

♞

“Try your best, darlin’. I’ve got you cornered.” —Jesse McCree

 

* * *

 

 **PRESENT DAY  
** **18:32. ISTANBUL, TURKEY.**

 

The flight to Istanbul was on a small, sleek hoverplane that offered a swell selection of assorted beverages and snacks. A decent seat for an op was as rare a commodity as was Ana missing her shots, so Jesse took full advantage of both and flirted with the hostess who seemed greatly charmed by his accent and the colloquialisms he kept throwing at her, masquerading himself as a businessman from the Deep South. They landed just as the sun was starting to set over the city, a deep wash of oranges and purples over the Dardanelles that looked as if it had come straight off a old-time postcard, like the ones his ma had used to receive sometimes from wealthier friends, off on vacations around the world.

His thoughts drifted away from assassins in Russia and further back into the past, dredging up one particular ghost. In Istanbul, he would see a familiar face again. He was ready for it.

He was met at the airport by a nondescript black car, driven by a silent driver who gave neither name nor recognition of Jesse’s presence. McCree had only taken Peacekeeper out of his case and concealed it inside of the suit jacket he was currently wearing. His suitcase would be passed on straight to the flight to Berlin. He was only planning to stay here in Turkey for one evening. Six hours. More than enough time.

The driver dropped him off at a small, quiet hotel a few minutes’ drive from Topkapı Palace, and nodded once as Jesse opened the door.

“Once you’re done, call it in.” His voice was gruff and deep, the rasp of a lifelong smoker. “My partner will meet you in a silver car. We’ll handle cleanup.” He tossed Jesse a small disposable cellphone. Jesse smiled.

“Sure thing, pardner.”

The omnic concierge at the front desk glanced up at him once, and slipped him a key. Room 174. McCree let himself in and glanced around the room. He wrinkled his nose. Old Bratva had clearly not bothered with room service today. The smell of sex permeated the air, and there was a suspiciously large stack of lacy underwear on the unmade bed. Some people didn’t change.

McCree neatly sidestepped the filth and settled himself down on a chair with his back facing the window. He drew the curtains, and patted Peacekeeper, sitting happily in his holster. He was in fairly high spirits.

Now came the boring part.

He whistled to himself quietly as he waited, an old song he’d first heard whilst running with the Deadlocks. Something about it reminded him of driving through the flat desert of the Southwest, nothing but pale yellow beneath him and sharp blue above him. Nothing but himself for miles and miles.

Empty and free.

The door opened. A large figure appeared in the doorway, reached for the light switch, and stopped as they noticed Jesse. McCree was a silhouette sitting against the window. He’d mostly chosen the position for dramatic effect, truth be told, because he didn’t particularly care if this target saw his face. Hell, he  _wanted_ this target to recognize him.

The figure dropped his hand from the light switch, and merely shut the door instead. The two men said nothing for a long moment, one sitting, and one standing there in the darkness.

Finally, McCree broke the still silence.

“Howdy.”

A small nod. “So. It  _is_ you, then.”

“Sure is, friend- _o_.” Jesse couldn’t quite conceal the bitterness from his voice.

“Reyes doesn’t bullshit, after all.”

“Did you think he would?” McCree lit himself a cigar and began puffing idly, watching the column of smoke crawl its way slowly up towards the ceiling. One of his best ones, for a special occasion.

“I wanted to see if he had a sense of humour. Turns out he does, sending you. You remember don’t you, our  _lovely_ night we had together?” The tone was light. Mocking.

McCree chewed on the end of his cigar. Yeah, he remembered. It had been a negotiation between Reyes, himself, and Old Bratva. He’d never bothered to remember the guy’s name. The deal had been high stakes, one Blackwatch couldn’t afford to lose. Reyes had been firm, but Old Bratva had been even firmer.

“No deal,” he had said. “No deal unless I get the boy for a night.” He had nodded towards Jesse, standing behind Reyes’ chair. McCree was supposed to have been there just as backup. Certainly not as a bargaining chip.

Reyes had immediately refused, disgusted at the idea, but Jesse had been twenty-one and stupid, hungry and exhilarated at the smell of gunpowder and blood in the room. Twenty one year old Jesse had bared his teeth and laughed and said, “it ain’t no big deal, boss. I’ll give the fella what he wants. Don’t mean that much to me.”

He’d regretted it later. Boy, had he regretted it. But the deal had been struck, and it seemed Old Bratva had kept his word. Until now.

“Yeah... I remember, old man.” McCree smiled, even though Bratva couldn’t see it in the gloom. “I’ve had a few bad ones in the past, but you was the worst lay I ever had.”

“Shame. I was about to say the same about you. You smoke now? That’s a bad habit for a young man like yourself. Smoking leads you to an early grave.”

“So does betrayal, I hear.”

Bratva’s shadow reached inside his inner pocket for his gun. He was fast, the practiced quickness of an old player at the game, but Jesse had always been the quickest draw he knew. He’d never met anybody who could fire at his speed. Not in Deadlock, not in Blackwatch.

The bullet struck Old Bratva right between the eyes and the Russian fell solidly against the wood of the closed door. McCree slid Peacekeeper back inside his jacket, and took a long drag on his cigar.

“Yeah, Reyes has a sense of humour,” he said to the lonely expanse of the hotel room. “He gave you to me as a gift so that I could kill you myself, you disgustin’ old man.”

The corpse didn’t reply.

Jesse walked over to the door and opened it. Bratva’s head and shoulders slumped out into the bright hallway. McCree frowned, propped up the head of the body with the toe of his shoe, and shoved the door closed again.

He stuck both hands in his pockets and strolled casually down the hallway to the elevator, whistling as he went. He passed the concierge, tossed the room key at her with a wink, and pulled the cellphone from his pocket. There was only one number in the contacts list.

_Job’s done._

The text came back seconds later.

_Nicely done. You ain’t my best agent for nothing._

McCree smiled down at the cellphone, ignoring the warmth of blood rising to his cheeks.

 

* * *

 

Berlin was a bright, windy city when Jesse arrived there, holding his suitcase and feeling much more comfortable in his customary scarf, button-down and jeans. He checked himself into the hotel that Blackwatch had acquired for him, under the name ‘Eastwood’. The name had been his idea.

The next week was spent futilely chasing down leads and researching all possible contacts in the area. A hunch, Reyes had said. Jesse was starting to wonder what on God’s green earth he had been smoking, and where he could get some. Maybe he was slipping at the game, but he certainly couldn’t find anything.

By Saturday he’d had enough of the bullshit, and flopped himself down on his hotel bed listlessly after piling his way through the free continental breakfast. The day was young, the sounds of the city outside were inviting, but he had an afternoon to kill before the nightlife would emerge. He could enjoy the bars and clubs later. Work off some steam.

Pulling out the remote, he switched on the holoset. News, in German. Dubbed dramas, in German. The actress on-screen: _“You can never go wrong trusting a tall man!”_ He switched channels. A commercial for sunscreen, its properties demonstrated by a lovely, perfectly pale woman. _Protect your skin! Don't allow yourself to get burned!_ Click. He changed it again. An old rerun of the remake of  _Twin Peaks_ —were they really still playing that—dubbed over in Turkish. Jesse knew some German, but almost no Turkish. He switched back to the news.

Currently playing was a debate between two prominent social media bloggers on the ongoing usefulness of Overwatch, and whether or not they still had a place and a reason to be around in this post-Omnic Crisis world. Jesse snorted softly. That debate had been raging ever since Morrison’s appointment as Strike Commander. It seemed the anti-Overwatch groups would never let up.

“I remain adamant that Overwatch has no real place in this post-Crisis world. Indeed, after the war Secretary-General Adawe of the U.N. expressed that she had harboured doubts whether or not Overwatch would succeed at all. What use is there in a taskforce that has been plagued with doubts since its inception? Not to mention that the relative obscurity of Strike Commander Reyes post-war has been a hot topic of debate among scholars for a while. I think that—”

McCree changed the channel. Turkish dubbed  _Twin Peaks_ it was. He knew the plot anyway, as convoluted as it was.

He fell asleep somewhere around early afternoon, datapad open on his chest and holoset playing quietly in the background. The window was slightly open, letting in a deliciously cool breeze. Idyllic city bliss.

From out of nowhere there came the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. McCree started awake with a jerk, body instinctively moving just in time to avoid the arrow. Had he been a second slower, it would have pierced right through his frontal lobe. No walking that one off, biotic fields or no.

It was like something from a bad movie, arrows flying through windows at unsuspecting targets. Jesse swore loudly, and yanked out the arrow from where it had pierced the pillow. He peered at it. He knew very little about arrows, but he shoved it into his case and grabbed his hat and datapad. The holoset was still playing.

The assassin had found him, somehow. It was impossible. And shooting in broad daylight? Whoever this guy was, he really wasn’t fucking around. He was dead set on completing the job he hadn’t finished in Russia.

Jesse climbed out of a downstairs bathroom window, case clutched under one arm. He pulled down the brim of his hat to hide his face. He needed to get out of here, and there was no Overwatch base in this city. There were a few cafés nearby that he could lay low at, but getting to the airport would need some more planning, and he really didn’t want to try and get there whilst being sniped from an unknown direction.

Walking quickly through the crowds to a busy coffee shop, he sat himself down at one of the tables furthest from the door and hoped that the assassin wouldn’t be too hot on collateral damage, or being seen by an entire café full of people. He pulled out his datapad and sent the emergency code to whoever was currently manning the comm channels.

The message came through as he was quickly working his way through a espresso that burned the back of his throat.

_Next flight to Paris in 35 minutes. Tickets and all check-in will be handled on our end. Just get there in one piece and you’ll be fine. You’re under the name ‘Gutiérrez’._

The next 35 minutes were a tense weaving in and out of traffic, hopping onto public transit and getting off before the toll inspectors could figure out that he hadn’t paid the fare. Cabs were out, since he didn’t know whether or not they would be compromised. The assassin didn’t make any further strikes, but Jesse knew better than to assume that he wasn’t being watched or followed the entire way. He imagined he could feel eyes on him, the amber eyes of a dragon watching his every move.

He made it to the airport in one piece, though a sticky, sweaty mess, and was propelled through security by someone he knew was on the Overwatch payroll.

It was only when he was slumped down in a squashed seat in economy class that he allowed himself to relax, steadying his shaking hands with a clear plastic cup of bad red wine. The hostess gave him a worried glance as he downed it in one go and gently offered her the cup again.

“Some tomato juice too, would you sweetheart, I got a feelin’ I need it right now.”

“Are you alright sir?” she asked, as she filled up the cup and handed it back to him. “You don’t look so good.”

“Stressful day,” Jesse replied. “Like you wouldn’t believe.” He drank the beverage and made a face. God, tomato juice was  _foul_. Why did they serve this on flights anyway?

He tried to nap, but every time he closed his eyes he pictured an arrow piercing through his brain and coming out right through the other side. He quickly gave up on sleep, and spent the flight reading and rereading the safety manual. There was a baby crying somewhere to his left. He wanted to sleep. God, he wanted to sleep.

At Charles de Gaulle airport, he ducked himself into a bathroom stall and pulled out his datapad. He had a few unread messages, all from fellow agents.

 

 **From:**   user_id_5938475  
**To:**   user_id_3323393  
**Sent:**   [CLASSIFIED]  
**Subject:**  sniper

we got security footage from the place outside your hotel room. a figure, dressed in all black, face and all appendages covered. archer, just like we found in russia. same assassin, most likely. almost certainly male, but we only got a few seconds of footage, because the archer quickly took out all the cameras in the area with what looked like a single shot. don’t tell reyes i said this, but if we could recruit this guy, geez. what an asset he could be.

 

-

 

Jesse made a face and flipped to the next message.

 

 **From:**   user_id_1118485  
**To:**   user_id_3323393  
**Sent:**   [CLASSIFIED]  
**Subject:**  Bow model

Bow model unidentifiable from the footage, not a model or make we can trace anywhere in the world. Most likely a one of a kind model, made unique for the user. Capable of extremely high powered shots, though, due to the distance they were at when they fired and the fact you say the arrow went straight through your window. I’ve never seen anything like it. In fact, I’m almost impressed. Can you scan in a picture of the arrow?

 

-

 

Jesse pulled the arrow out of his case, scanned it in and sent it off.

The final one was from Reyes.

 

 **From:**   user_id_2665464  
**To:**   user_id_3323393  
**Sent:**   [CLASSIFIED]  
**Subject:**  [blank]

He’s coming to  _you_. Stay in Paris.

 

-

 

Sleep didn’t come easily that night. McCree jumped at every shadow and took the quickest of showers, somewhat afraid of a masked assassin yanking back the curtain and stabbing him in his birthday suit while he screamed in a shrill voice, à la  _Psycho._

He checked the comms. No more news. Just that last message from his commanding officer telling him to stay put and let an assassin come to him. Jesse hated waiting around. He hated the idea of waiting around to become Saint Sebastian even more.

The minutes ticked by on the clock on the beside table, and Jesse groaned, shoving his face into the pillow. He breathed in a few inhales of the musty fabric. The words ran through his head like a mantra.

_Fly to Berlin, then pick up the trail. Not a lead, more a hunch. Keep Reyes informed. Don’t get dead. Don’t fuck up again. Don’t break down._

_Are you a good man, Jesse McCree? I don’t rightly know, ma’am._

_Dragonstrike, Dragonstrike, Dragonstrike._

He woke up around 5am after a thoroughly unrestful sleep, though thankfully dragon-free, knowing the next twenty four hours were going to be a tense waiting game. Jesse didn’t go down to breakfast, didn’t leave his hotel room. He devoured everything in the mini fridge and got a mild sugar stomach ache by mid-afternoon. By evening, he thought he was going to go stir crazy. He took another shower simply for something to do. It was only a matter of time before the assassin showed his face. He rubbed his metal arm, tracing the outline of the skull as a comforting gesture.

Sometimes he missed his Deadlock days.

Emerging from the steamy bathroom, he slung on his most comfortable pair of jeans and his belt, wrapping the towel around his naked shoulders as a makeshift serape. His datapad beeped, and he bent over the bed to read the new message, running his hands through his wet hair to smooth it back from his forehead.

 

 **From:**   user_id_2665464  
**To:**   user_id_3323393  
**Sent:**   [CLASSIFIED]  
**Subject:**  news

This just came in, so don’t go spreading it around. I thought you should know, because the news that’s coming ain’t good, and I’ve got a feeling we’re gonna have to deal with this mess sooner rather than later. Gérard’s wife, Amélie. She’s been kidnapped. We think it’s Talon. Finish up this Dragonstrike business and get the fuck back to base, because we’re on high alert, and Morrison’s hounding my ass about when we can send in a squad to track some leads and find her.

 

-

 

“Shit,” Jesse said. “Motherfucking shit.”

He closed the datapad and sat down on the bed, reaching for the fresh shirt he’d laid out beside him. And froze.

There was a shadow on the balcony. And Peacekeeper was out of his reach, across the room on the table where the holoset stood.

As McCree watched in increasing horror, the shadow emerged from the night air and walked slowly into the room. He was dressed in loose, blousy trousers and his lower legs were covered with looked like, at a cursory glance, enhanced alloy footwear and shin protectors. His lower face was covered with a black piece of cloth, but the left shoulder remained bare, and as he moved into the light Jesse could see an intricate tattoo that spanned from shoulder to wrist. A real fine piece of work, which under any other circumstances Jesse might have liked to examine in closer detail. The bow was clutched loosely in his left hand, and McCree could see dark hair, tied up from the face with what looked like a long yellow scarf.

Dragonstrike, in the flesh.

“Why didn’t you shoot me from across the way?” Jesse found himself saying as he sat there, motionless, fingers itching for his gun.

“I wanted to see your face, this time,” came the muffled response. The brown eyes under the black scarf were cold underneath heavy brows.

McCree watched as the assassin scanned up and down his seated figure, taking in the bare expanse of his tanned chest, hairy and still damp from the shower. His eyes stalled on the belt buckle, and McCree could see his lips moving underneath his mask, slowly mouthing out _B-A-M-F_ with a perplexed expression.

Jesse raised one eyebrow and shifted his hips enticingly. “See something you like? Picked a helluva way to tell a guy you’re interested, honestly.” He was stalling for time and they both knew it, masking his fear under false confidence.

“Do you often flirt terribly with people who are about to kill you?” the assassin replied dryly.

“Not always. Sometimes I buy them dinner first.”

The assassin growled in response and nocked an arrow, aiming straight at McCree’s broad chest. He fired just as Jesse threw himself off the bed, rolling forward towards the holoset stand and sending the towel flying. Grabbing Peacekeeper neatly between both hands, he crouched on the floor, aiming the barrel directly at the assassin, who registered only the briefest moment of surprise.

“Now we’re even,” Jesse offered.

The masked figure merely nocked another arrow and loosed it straight at McCree. Jesse dodged and fired expertly, shooting the bow straight out of his hands and sending it skidding under the bed. The assassin cursed loudly in what sounded to Jesse like Japanese and dived, seizing McCree around the waist and pushing him onto the floor. Peacekeeper flew out of his hand and hit the wall with a loud _thump_.

“Now we’re even more even,” McCree grinned. He kneed the assassin in the groin and heard the satisfying yelp of pain, kicking off the man on top of him.

The assassin rolled backwards and got to his feet inelegantly. His eyes, heavily shadowed with black liner, briefly flickered towards the bow under the bed. Then he seemingly made his decision, and fled backwards towards the balcony.

Jesse grabbed for his button-down and threw it around his shoulders as he chased the masked figure, who neatly flipped over the railing and began climbing down the fire escape with the agility of a monkey. Jesus, who even climbed like that?

McCree cursed and grabbed onto the rickety iron bars, feeling the chill of the evening wind against his still-damp skin. He prayed they would hold under his weight, and that his shirt, loose and flapping, wouldn’t catch on anything. He didn’t want to end up a messy splat on the ground.

Looking down, he could see the assassin climbing down at a much faster pace than he could ever hope to reach. They were still many stories up from ground level, but if they kept this pace up, the assassin would be off home free long before McCree would reach him.

 _Well,_ Jesse thought,  _here goes nothing, I guess._

He released his grip on the bars and let gravity take its course, sliding down the fire escape for a few moments of exhilarating fear before landing squarely on top of the assassin, who shouted in surprise and went down heavily. McCree straddled the shorter man’s shoulders like a bull at a rodeo for a few seconds before he was seized around the thighs and defenestrated straight into the adjoining hotel room. He crashed through the glass and landed on his back painfully, feeling the burn of the carpet against his lower back.

Luckily, the room was currently dark and unoccupied, otherwise there would have been a hell of lot of explaining to do. McCree gasped loudly as the assassin threw himself on top of him, air leaving his lungs in one fell swoop. Still, he had the advantage, even with a trained killer on top of him. Snipers didn’t do well in close quarters situations. And Jesse McCree, he’d grown up fighting with his fists in bar brawls.

He grabbed blindly at the assassin’s face with his robotic hand and heard the satisfying rip of the face scarf tearing. Kicking out with one leg, feeling the sharp pull of the newly healed flesh in his thigh, he landed his bare foot onto the assassin’s neck with a solid slap. The assassin went flying backward into a floor lamp in the corner. The lamp, one of those new models that registered nearby movement, immediately switched on.

The assassin got to his feet shakily. He was favouring his right side, and the sleeves of his loose shirt were falling down around him. Now both shoulders were bare, and McCree could see that his right shoulder was heavily taped up with gauze and bandage. There was a dark stain where old dried blood had seeped through. So he  _had_ managed to land a shot on him back in that field. No wonder the assassin hadn’t finished him off in Russia. McCree had wounded him with that wild shot, and he’d had to go and tend to his own wounds first.

The assassin looked up at Jesse.

Jesse stared at the now exposed face of his attacker. And then froze. He _knew_ that face. The beard was fuller than when he had last seen it, but he knew that scowl, the upturned proud turn of that mouth. He’d spent an evening in a closet and in a car with that face, being held at gunpoint. He’d crashed a car with that face in it.

It was the Shimada. The one from Dubai. Hanzo Shimada.  _He_  was Dragonstrike.

Somehow, it made a twisted sort of sense.

Shimada glared at McCree, panting heavily. He was bleeding from somewhere above his brow, a line of crimson streaking down the sharp ridge of his cheekbone.

“That was the last mistake you will ever make.” His voice was icy cold, despite his heavy breathing. Shimada lifted one fist and wiped at the blood at his cheekbone, leaving a dark red smudge near his temple.

In response, Jesse squared his shoulders and raised his fists in a brawling stance. He flashed Shimada a cocksure smile. “Aren’t you the one who told me to ‘expect the unexpected’? Try your best, darlin’. I’ve got you cornered.”

Hanzo only smiled slowly at Jesse’s bravado. Then he moved in for the kill.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Clint Eastwood](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clint_Eastwood)   
>  [Psycho](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psycho_\(1960_film\))   
>  [Saint Sebastian](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Sebastian)


	5. i don't know what's wrong with us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conspiracy begins.

♜

“We are not friends, Jesse McCree. For now, we are allies. And after I receive the information I seek, I will kill you.” —Hanzo Shimada

 

* * *

 

  **PRESENT DAY  
20:13. PARIS, FRANCE.**

 

The first rule of taking down another assassin was this: always assume they were one step ahead of you.

That was one of the cardinal rules of the Blackwatch playbook: Jesse’s playbook. He’d written a few chapters of that book himself. It was comprised of set rules and fragments collected over time by countless nameless agents that, on record, had all been technically dead and buried. Over time Jesse had written his own entries in that book, transcribed on the page in sweat and blood. How to fast-rope onto a hypertrain running half the speed of sound. The best way to cross a country unseen and off the record. What _not_ to do if trapped in a building that was about to explode.

That particular entry, however, had been Reyes’, drilled into Jesse through countless hours spent in the sparring ring with his commanding officer, innumerable hours spent being pummeled to the ground—again, and again, and _again_ , until Jesse’s face and upper body had been speckled with bruises in violent shades of red and amber. He’d thought himself pretty tough. Nobody got to surviving a gang like Deadlock from the years of fifteen to seventeen unless they had been ready to smash the bottle over the edge of the bar-top.

But he’d never seen anybody fight like Reyes. The man moved like like a panther—sleek movements honed from years spent in brutal military training regimes—and Reyes _had_ been part of both the United States military and the SEP. Sleek movements gained through many years of practice, combined with brutal force that had sent Jesse’s eighteen year old limbs, still slightly too long and awkward for his body, down onto the sweaty training mats with embarrassing frequency.

“Listen to me now, boy,” Reyes had said, bare forearm braced against the apple of Jesse’s throat, ready to push down and choke the remaining breath from his lungs. “Listen to me loud and clear. Are you?”

Jesse could only nod weakly in response. In that moment he had been acutely aware of the powerful strength of the man above him, the difference in their skills. He had been wearing Blackwatch workout gear; Reyes had been in his own training clothes, old and worn and familiar.

“You might think right now that I’m doing this to be an asshole. I ain’t. Well, not really. Nobody is going to go as easy on you as I will, out there in the big bad world. You think you know how to fight? You don’t know _shit_ , cowboy. That’s why your face looks like an overripe tomato right now and you’ve done nothing but get thrown to the ground since we started.”

The arm had left his throat. Jesse crawled onto his hands and knees, coughing. A line of thick, ropey saliva, dripping from his mouth onto the practice mat. Reyes made a disgusted sound at the mess.

“Maybe I wasted my time recruiting you.”

Jesse hung his head and angrily blinked down the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He could feel the tell-tale burn of them behind his eyelids—acidic and brimming and sharp. He bit the inside of his lip.

A foot casually nudged against his side, like he was an animal. “Well? Are you gonna get up and fight me, or are you gonna stay there with your ass up like you’re wanting to get fucked? Because I’ll tell you one thing; with the way you’re hitting me, everybody you meet’s gonna fuck you over. Maybe they already have, huh?”

Jesse had snarled, vicious, reaching out one hand to grab at Reyes’ ankle. His hand made contact with one socked foot. He pulled.

Like lightning, Reyes’ other foot quickly came swinging around, smashing straight into Jesse’s face and sending him flying back down onto the mat. He laid there for a few dizzying moments, mind running a mile a minute, thinking of how much he really wished he had told his commander to fuck right off, that day in the prison.

Reyes sighed, exasperated. “You fall for it _every time._ Too much anger in a fight’s no good, I’ve _told_ you this. Don’t let yourself be baited with words or you’ll find yourself a dead man. Come on, McCree, get up.”

A pause. Jesse clamped his eyes shut, forcing down an uncontrollable wave of hideous nausea.

He hadn’t eaten yet that day, Reyes had told him not to, but now the hunger was reaching the point where the hollow ache itself was making him sick, an empty chasm spread wide across the parched desert scrub.

A concession, softer: “McCree, I need you to get up. I _know_ you can get up.”

Jesse pushed himself up from the floor with shaking palms, feeling the slide of his own damp palms against the rubber mats. He stood. He breathed. Once, twice. He raised his fists again.

Reyes didn’t even look like he’d broken a sweat since they’d started. He raised one dark eyebrow.

“Ready to go again, agent?”

 

* * *

  

Jesse smiled to himself. They had had many sparring sessions in the past, him and Reyes. Reyes was tough. A tough teacher, to train tough agents. At the beginning he’d thought it some kind of abuse, perhaps a hazing ritual of some kind. God only knows, Blackwatch had been a pretty rough crowd to break into.

It had taken him years to realize that private sparring sessions with the Commander had been a _privilege_.

One step ahead, already dead. Blackwatch was tough business. _No dejes que se aprovechen de ti, McCree._

So when Hanzo struck out with one metal covered leg, bringing his knee straight around in an arc towards McCree, Jesse tried to think two steps ahead, as Reyes had taught him. He struck out with the palm of his right hand, gripping his assailant’s calf and pulling as he twisted his entire body, driving the metal hand of his left in a punch aimed directly at Shimada’s face. Shimada ducked his head to avoid the blow, reaching up to hook one hand over Jesse’s outstretched arm in response. He pulled down, hard. They both hit the ground heavily, gasping at the force of their bodies making contact with the floor.

Jesse growled, reaching out for anything to use as a weapon, and came back with nothing but a handful of carpet fibres. He bucked wildly, using the strength of his legs and feet to push Shimada back, fists clenched and raised.

A flash of fear through him, unbidden, a fear he’d never been able to stamp out completely. Yes, Reyes had trained him to take physical punishment. Yes, Jesse knew a few useful tricks for gaining an advantage over an opponent if they happened to get too close. Trouble was, Jesse’s agent specialty was shooting from a distance. He tried to never get too close in the first place. That kind of strategy was only to be used as a last resort. To add to that, McCree had never been a situation where he was actively fighting for his life in an open shirt and no shoes. The majority of what Reyes had taught him had been firmly in the realm of self defense and withdrawal, not a master class on how to murder somebody with your bare hands. You fought with your fists when you had no other choice, and then you got out.

He didn’t know how well Shimada fought in hand-to-hand combat. He didn’t want to risk finding out.

Shimada immediately dropped into a crouched stance that lowered his centre of gravity, and brought his hands up, waiting for the blow.

McCree bit his lip, then threw the first punch. Hanzo grabbed it in his palm easily, as McCree had expected, and retaliated. Jesse dodged the fist coming straight towards his temple and ducked. Hanzo’s next blow, a knife-hand strike, drove straight into the soft flesh directly underneath his ribs.

It quickly became clear to him that Shimada, like himself, was desperately out of practice in this field. He knew a few moves that looked they had been borrowed from martial arts, but he was clearly a defensive fighter, and moved as such. The offensive blows he struck hurt like a _bitch_ , but weren’t enough to fully pin his opponent down. He dodged left as McCree feinted right, slapping away his blows. He drove his hands into pressure points and tried to secure Jesse in locks. They weren’t the moves of somebody trained to kill barehanded, but somebody who fought with his hands when he had exhausted all other options.

Jesse desperately hoped that his sheer body mass might win him the day. Hanzo had powerful arms and a well-muscled upper body, but he fought with a bow. He was used to staying still as he killed.

McCree landed a solid blow against Shimada’s right shoulder, right on top of the bloodied bandage. The assassin howled in pain and drove a metal tipped foot straight into Jesse’s crotch in response.

Another messy punch. Sloppy footwork. The painful dig of nails into bare flesh. A kick to a metal arm. One hand, gripped tightly around a yellow hair scarf.

Whatever thoughts McCree might have had about a battle pulled straight from an action movie went straight out of the window. It wasn’t fluid, or beautiful. It was messy. It was kill or be killed. And both of them, quite frankly, were failing pretty evidently to land any killing blows.

In another lifetime, it might have been comical.

Hanzo, clearly growing impatient at their stalemate of limbs and punches, quickly dissolved into more underhanded tactics: grabbing a fistful of Jesse’s damp hair and pulling him off his feet, throwing him against one of the walls with a loud painful thud. McCree hit the wall at an odd angle that knocked the breath from his lungs and gasped, dizzy with the black spots that overcame his vision. He looked back at Shimada. There was a rapidly spreading stain of dark blood coming from his right shoulder, but he had suddenly procured a knife in his hands, blade short and sharp and dark. He was smiling, despite the fact he was bleeding. He was enjoying this. The mark of a true assassin.

Jesse himself wasn’t having much fun at all. He cursed and grabbed the closest object he could find, a holoset remote, and threw it in retaliation. The remote struck Hanzo firmly on the back of his hand, who swore as the blade went spinning from his grip and flew somewhere into one of the dark corners of the room.

Quick as a flash, Hanzo forgot about the lost knife and grabbed the nearest object—the smooth, slim post of the offending floor lamp, swinging it around in front of him as if it were a spear. McCree leapt neatly out of the way as Hanzo deliberately smashed the end with the light bulb on the polished wood of the holoset stand. Vishkar tech, he noticed. Hard light bulb.

The bulb cracked, and the room was once again plunged into darkness. Except now Jesse could see it, the exposed laser wires crackling and sparking around the broken glass of the bulb.

Shit.

Hanzo lunged forward again with his makeshift spear, Jesse ducking and diving as much as he could to avoid the blows. As soon as Shimada had his hands on anything resembling a weapon, even a goddamn floor lamp, he suddenly knew exactly what he was doing. Once again the dragon from Dubai, gun in hand, ready to pull the trigger. His movements were more confident, aimed to kill. He was trained in a wide variety of arms.

_This is a dangerous man you’re fighting, Jesse. Assassin and yakuza, and heir to a criminal empire. Of course he knows fifty different ways to kill you with a floor lamp._

Hanzo struck out with the lamp, surprising McCree with his reach, one of the exposed wires grazing the flesh of Jesse’s right arm. McCree howled at the shock that sizzled up the entire length of his arm, hairs immediately standing on end. He grabbed his arm in pain and barely ducked the next blow that was sent immediately for his head. The dizziness was back, a horrible lurch in his gut that made him feel like he was about to retch.

He was only grateful Hanzo hadn’t struck his metal arm with the wire.

McCree swallowed down his feelings of nausea as he leapt away from Hanzo’s swings. In the back of his mind, he was distantly aware of the fact that they were both making a pretty unreasonable amount of noise for an unoccupied bedroom. Nobody had interrupted them yet. It was odd. Something was off.

Hanzo was still swinging around that ridiculous floor lamp in a wide sweeping arc in front of him. Finally, McCree had had enough. Still clutching his stinging arm, he dropped to his knees and rolled forward straight into Hanzo, sending one leg around to catch at the back of Hanzo’s knees and drop him to the ground. In the confusion, he grabbed the metal handle of the pole from Hanzo’s now slack grip and threw it across the room. It hit the top of the large bed in the middle of the suite, before bouncing and landing heavily onto the floor.

Jesse brought a fist up to strike Hanzo underneath the jaw. He grinned as his fist made satisfying contact, and Hanzo choked and flew backwards with the blow, feet skidding across the carpet and suddenly making contact with linoleum floor tile. Shimada stumbled for a moment, grabbing onto the first surface he could reach to stable himself. He looked down at it. It was a kitchen top. These rooms contained a kitchenette.

Neither of them had even noticed in the chaos.

McCree put it together the instant Hanzo did, and he swore internally.

Kitchenette. More knives.

The knife block was long out of his reach, and Hanzo was closer to them. There was no getting there in time.

Jesse dived onto the bed and grabbed hold of a thick pillow as a paring knife came slicing through the air, hitting the centre of the pillow squarely and piercing the soft fabric. McCree growled and yanked the knife out, sending soft downy feathers scattering throughout the room, then raised it in warning. He stopped. Hanzo also had his hand raised, a bread knife clutched tightly in his fist.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

“Well,” Jesse began. “Looks like we got ourselves here a Mexican standoff.”

“I somehow doubt that your skills with a blade surpass my own,” came the response. Cool and collected, as though they hadn’t just been fighting to the death mere seconds earlier.

“Maybe so,” Jesse told him, “but you can’t throw a bread knife nearly as well as the one I’ve got here right now. Put it down.”

“So that you have the advantage?” Hanzo spat acerbically. “I am not that stupid.”

“Throw it then,” Jesse challenged. “Let’s see who has the better aim. Or maybe we could both put them down, and sort out this mighty fine mess we’re in.”

Shimada stared at him, mouth turned downwards in a grim scowl. The seconds ticked by, agonizingly slow in the dark hotel room.

Finally, cautiously, as though the movement pained him, Hanzo put the bread knife back down on the counter. McCree flicked the paring knife over his shoulder. He heard the faint metallic sound of it hit the balcony.

“We’re even again.” he said. “Hanzo Shimada.”

A quiet, short sniff. “Ah. So you do recognize me, then.”

“Pretty hard not to,” Jesse replied. “You had your gun pointed at me for a fair portion of that evening. Shit like that, a man don’t forget too soon.”

“You are a terrible driver,” Hanzo responded coldly. “And an even worse bodyguard.”

Jesse shrugged. “Was the only thing I could think of, at the time. Had to stop you from gettin’ to your destination.”

Shimada looked like he was about to retort, but swallowed down his words just in time. He shifted awkwardly on his feet.

“Overwatch is proving more difficult to subdue than I had originally thought,” he told Jesse. “You are not as... terrible a fighter as I had presumed.”

McCree couldn’t help smiling, despite the circumstances. “You’re not so great yourself, sweetheart. Certainly no Bruce Lee.”

Hanzo frowned. “I am not—”

“So what are we gonna do about this situation we’re in?” Jesse interrupted. “I think we’ve both realized that if we continue this charade, we ain’t gonna get out of this one easily. Or in one piece.”

Hanzo stepped forward back onto the carpet, a single step of concession. Jesse got to his feet and nearly tripped over the broken lamp on the floor. He looked down at it, scowled, and kicked it backwards underneath the bed, hurting the back of his ankle in the process. He suddenly remembered he had no shoes on.

Why hadn’t they been interrupted yet?

“You wanna talk this out?” he offered. Shimada didn’t reply. The air in the room was hot, heavy. McCree could feel the damp stickiness where his shirt was sticking to his back. 

He sighed. 

“Look, you been tryna kill me since that night in Russia. I respect your skill. You gotten closer to me than anyone else has in all the years I been doin’ this. But I ain’t one for losin’, and I suspect neither are you. So what do you say to a truce? You go your way, I go mine. We never meet again, and we don’t have to kill each other.”

Reyes was going to be furious if he ever found out Jesse had offered such an deal. That wasn’t Blackwatch’s way; feeble attempts at diplomacy. But McCree knew the feeling of running up against a brick wall. It was a stalemate, as much as that word tasted sour in his mouth.

Shimada exhaled, a long stream of air from his nose and mouth. They both waited, as the dragon made his decision.

Then he nodded once, curtly.

Jesse stepped towards the assassin, one hand raised in a gesture of goodwill. He could come back, he reasoned to himself. This op was still salvageable. Walk away from this encounter and track Shimada again, more prepared the second time. Besides, now he had vital information that Blackwatch needed to know.

Since Dubai, six months ago, Overwatch had been tracking the movements of the Shimada clan like a hawk. Currently, however, they were at a standstill. According to a few reports that Jesse’s clearance level had allowed him to see, several illegal weapons shipments had been stopped, a few trafficking rings busted, but there were many people that had managed to slip through the cracks. Small time partners had been arrested, who either refused to spill any secrets or conveniently committed suicide before any information could be extracted. There was talk of trying to infiltrate using a sting op, like the one they had used on Deadlock. Morrison’s proposition.

If Hanzo Shimada was heir to a criminal empire, a world class assassin in his free time, and Blackwatch could take him down now, there would be chaos. A dangerous foe would be stopped, and Overwatch could make its move in the aftermath. Take down Dragonstrike and the _Shimada-gumi_ both.

Two birds, one stone.

McCree smiled. It was a good plan. One of his better ones.

He reached forward with his hand outstretched, ready to shake hands with a worthy opponent. Half a year of this bullshit, nearly ended. It was going against his usual nature, but he just had to be patient, this time. Strike later.

Hanzo reached out his hand silently and took Jesse’s, expression perfectly blank and composed. They shook on it, two worthy opponents.

“It’s been a pleasure,” Jesse said, only half joking.

In retrospect, McCree should have seen the next few moments coming.

Quick as a whip, Hanzo’s brows furrowed, and his hand tightened around Jesse’s. He snarled and yanked McCree forward, pulling the taller man clean off his feet. As McCree tripped, the assassin turned in a graceful motion and drove an elbow straight into the soft flesh between McCree’s shoulder blades, hair scarf a yellow flash through the air. Jesse choked and went down hard, hitting the carpeted floor on his hands and knees.

Hanzo dived over to the corner where his knife had fallen earlier, and Jesse scrambled to his feet, only to be seized viciously by the lapels of his open shirt and shoved hard against the solid wooden panels on the end of the bed frame. His legs gave out beneath him, and he slid down onto his ass painfully. Hanzo was crouched in front of him, pushing him into the patterned wood of the bed with his knee, one hand fisted in the material of his shirt and the other again holding his dark knife. Close up, Jesse could see the glint of it in the dim light. Shimada pressed the blade close against Jesse’s throat with a quiet noise of pleasure. 

Reyes’ voice echoed in his head. _You fall for it every time._

Jesse cursed. Expect the unexpected. He was getting tired of all these adages. Of this cat and mouse chase. Being one-upped by this goddamned assassin. He was so _tired._

Blackwatch had a high turnover rate, he remembered. And he’d already cheated the noose once. Maybe this was the time his luck had finally run out.

He’d never be able to tell Ana what he had never come to know.

“Any last words?” Hanzo asked, voice insincere. His hand on the blade was perfectly steady. A real assassin, not some poor boy from Sante Fe thinking he could be anything but a hired gun.

“Yeah,” Jesse spat flippantly. “Dragonstrike’s a real dumb ass name for an assassin.” Might as well tell him how he really felt. He kept his eyes open and stared right into Shimada’s eyes. Even if he was about to meet his maker, there was no way in hell Jesse McCree was gonna meet him lying down.

But the clean slice of the knife across his throat never came. There was no red snarling dragon. No fire and brimstone.

Hanzo hesitated.

“What?” Jesse snapped. “If you’re gonna do it, fuckin’ _do it_ , Jesus.”

“How do you know that name?” Hanzo asked carefully. His voice was thick, forced and controlled. He was breathing heavily, nostrils flared.

“What name?” Jesse choked out, genuinely surprised. “I thought you was gonna kill me?”

“Dragon. Strike,” Shimada growled, grinding the name out from between gritted teeth. “How do you know it?”

Jesse frowned. Maybe he wasn’t about to die after all.

“I was sent after you. You _know_ that. I don’t—”

“An Overwatch agent was sent after Hanzo Shimada in Dubai,” Hanzo spat. “That is _not_ the same thing.”

“I really have no idea what you’re—”

“What is your name?” A demand. No concession.

“Well, it’s uh, José—”

The knife pressed harder. McCree could feel the edge, razor sharp, dig slightly into the delicate skin of his Adam’s apple. The barest hint of blood welled up in a neat line from the shallow cut.

“I will not ask you again. What is. Your _name_.”

Jesse inhaled shallowly under the press of the knife. He bit his bottom lip. He gave in.

“It’s Jesse. Jesse McCree.”

A pause.

“...are you the one they call Deadeye?”

Wait, what?

“How the _fuck_ do you know that name?” Jesse snarled. There was no way Shimada could know that name.

“ _Are. You. Dead. Eye_?” Hanzo hissed. His eyes were very wide. The black liner around them had smudged into the corners. His hair had come half undone from its ponytail, and the blood above his brow was dry and flaking. Honestly, he looked like a hot mess. McCree didn’t want to know what _he_ looked like currently.

“ _Yes_ ,” Jesse spat. “That’s me. What in the seven hells is goin’ on here?”

Hanzo sucked in a deep inhale of air. “Jesse McCree the Overwatch agent and Deadeye the assassin are the same person? _You_?”

The way he said ‘McCree’ sounded as if the word had grown a pair of wings, flown into Shimada’s mouth, and died there. From the incredulous tone of his voice, he really couldn’t believe the words Jesse had just told him. It was actually insulting.

“Yes!” Jesse retorted. “Just like how Hanzo Shimada the yakuza heir and Dragonstrike are the same guy, _I guess._ ”

Hanzo leaned back a fraction. “This… complicates things,” he said, in a bewildered tone. “I did not expect this.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you expected, then?” McCree asked. He was getting real tired of not knowing what the fuck was going on. Was this guy going to kill him or not?

Shimada looked pensive, then nodded briskly. The knife didn’t leave Jesse’s throat, but Hanzo relaxed his grip.

“...seven months ago,” he began, “I received an anonymous message. The message said that an assassin, known in the intelligence community as Deadeye, was on my trail. I was... advised to kill them before they could spill valuable intel regarding my clan. Shimada secrets had been compromised.”

“That’s... me,” Jesse said in surprise. “Well, sorta. But… I didn’t _have_ any info on you at that time. My first time workin’ on the Shimada case was in Dubai. A whole month after that. We didn’t have barely nothin’ on the Shimada back then.” He was giving Hanzo too much information and he knew it, but for some reason his instincts were telling him to keep talking. Jesse always trusted his instincts if he could help it.

Hanzo continued. “In Dubai, I did not think that the double agent who escorted me out of the building could be related to that. There were… a lot of things going on, at that time. Many things to think about. I put the assassin out of my thoughts, because even after I searched around, there was little to no information to be found on them. It appeared Deadeye was just a name; no credited kills. I assumed the tip was nothing more than a hoax. I have received many of those before. After Dubai, I went after the Overwatch agent who had... ruined the shipment. I found them in Russia, also looking for me. I assumed Overwatch was attempting to finish the job and bring me in. I did not expect the assassin and Overwatch to be in any way related.”

Jesse could practically feel the gears in his brain fighting hard to keep up. He frowned. “Are you sayin’ we were both sent anonymous cold tips asking us to kill each other? What’s the point in that?”

“Is that what you were sent?” Hanzo asked. He finally pulled the blade away completely and leaned backwards on his heels.

Jesse nodded slowly. “About a month ago, I got an anonymous transmission. I received a confirmation deposit, too. But it was unusual. It just had your name on it. Dragonstrike. I didn’t realize that was you, at the time. I thought Shimada and Dragonstrike were two different things, and that I was done with Shimada. When you cornered me in Russia, I was goin’ after that  _other_ guy. No idea you was the same person.”

Neither of them said anything for a long moment. Then Hanzo frowned. “They were both sent anonymously, and cold. But if the same person sent both of those messages,” he said slowly, “then somebody is playing with us. I resent that idea. You have _no_ idea who sent that transmission?”

“Naw,” Jesse replied. “Usually I just get ops from command. I have no idea who the hell sent that one.”

“Then why did you accept it?”

Now Jesse felt a bit foolish. “Because… it looked interestin’,” he admitted. “I don’t really turn down shit unless there’s a real good reason. Call me a thrillseeker. Besides, command informed me they was monitorin’ it, so it’s not like I was goin’ at it all by my lonesome.”

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Your superiors know we are here right now?”

Jesse cursed. Open mouth, insert foot, McCree.

“Uh… yeah,” he grinned sheepishly. Hanzo growled and brought the knife back up. “Whoa whoa whoa, hang on!” he threw his arms up in surrender. “It ain’t like that. They haven’t got anythin’ on me right now. They just know my general location. They didn’t want to have any pinpoint device monitorin’ or GPS tracking on me this time, ‘cause they weren’t sure if they was being hacked from outside or somethin’. If they was, that’d be a direct line from me to them. You knew exactly where I was in Berlin. They wasn’t gonna take that risk.”

Hanzo sneered. “Overwatch leaves its agents in the dark like that? Not the impression they like to give off to the world.”

“Not _Overwatch_ ,” Jesse retorted, somewhat offended, “Bl—uh, my division.”

Shimada raised one eyebrow. McCree scowled.

“Your division.”

“I ain’t telling you nothin’,” Jesse scowled. “You sneaky son of a bitch.”

“You forget I am holding a knife,” Hanzo replied easily. “And I knew where you were in Berlin because I tracked you through traditional means.” He smirked. “Perhaps Overwatch might invest in some agents that do not rely so heavily on modern technology as a crutch.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jesse muttered. “Heard that one before, too. I ain’t so bad.”

“If your archaic gun is anything to go by, evidently not,” Hanzo sniffed. “This is unfortunate. It seems I am at a loss here, with only one possible course of action. Someone is playing with both of us, and I do not doubt that there is more at work here than I had previously thought.”

Jesse sat up straighter. “So you’re... not going to kill me?”

“No,” Hanzo said. “I cannot. Not until I receive answers. And your corpse will provide me with none.” He finally stood up and stepped backwards, pulling his long sleeve back up over his bloodied right shoulder and slipping the knife somewhere inside his belt.

“What _is_ that thing made of?” Jesse asked, trying to disguise his sheer relief. “I can already tell it ain’t metal.”

“One day I might tell you,” Hanzo replied. “Perhaps before I kill you with it.”

“Ouch. Still with the assassinating me thing, I see. I thought we was having a truce here, _Han_ -zo.” He butchered the name on purpose.

Hanzo crossed his arms, mouth set in a grim line, unamused. “We _do_ have a truce. For now. I reiterate what I told you once. Do not even _think_ about betraying me. We may be working together, but I do not trust you. We are not friends, Jesse McCree. For now, we are allies. And after I receive the information I seek, I will kill you. I will also enjoy it. A great deal.”

Should have figured as much, trying to make small talk with a dragon. McCree lifted a hand to the cut on his throat, hissing as the drying sweat on his palms came into contact with the fresh line of blood. A reminder of just how dangerous this man could be.

“Well shit god- _damn_ ,” Jesse muttered. “Allied with a fella who wants to kill me. Now ain’t that just the ticket.”

What was he going to tell Reyes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Hanzo knows how to fight with a floor lamp because he's re-purposing [naginata](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Naginata) techniques. He wasn't actually trained in floor lamp.  
> \- _No dejes que se aprovechen de ti, McCree._ ; "Don't let them take advantage of you, McCree."  
>  I am not a native Spanish speaker, so if you ever notice my Spanish is off, please feel free to correct me!!


	6. they just made us this way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning for brief discussions of drug usage/sex:** Jesse undergoes a medical exam in this chapter which brings up several rather tough issues. Nothing is discussed in heavy detail.

♛

“I’m not _hiring_ you. I’m giving you a choice, boy. The only choice that matters now.” —Gabriel Reyes

 

* * *

  

**TEN YEARS EARLIER  
17:26. SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS.**

 

Jesse sat glumly and stared at the wall, both wrists cuffed to the tabletop and his ankles zip tied to the legs of the slightly wobbly chair he’d been sat down on. They’d taken his gun, his clothes, _and_ his goddamned hat too. Now, here he was, tied up in an interrogation room in some maximum security facility somewhere. He wasn’t even sure if he was still in the U.S., since he’d been shoved from vehicle to vehicle for a remarkably long period of time with a black cloth bag over his head and the people assigned to transport him had clearly been under orders not to talk in his presence. The cuffs around his wrists were impressive tech, completely bullet or shatterproof. No getting out of one of those without a key.

Well, such was the experience when your gang got busted by the likes of Overwatch, he supposed. Though he _had_ to give them credit where credit was due, their sting operation had been executed flawlessly. One charming omnic double agent, one early morning wake up call, one ambush; Overwatch swarming all over the gorge with guns and handcuffs like an infestation of heavily armed blue and white ants.

Deadlock’s reaction time had been embarrassingly slow, for all that they were a semi-professional criminal enterprise. Jesse recalled the muffled curses and yelling of his gang mates interspersed with the sound of suppressing fire ricocheting off the already chipped and bullet ridden concrete of the gas station. It had been Jesse’s turn to hole up at Big Earl’s that evening on the night watch. He had woken up with a rifle in his face, held by an Overwatch uniform. He had recognized it instantly from the news broadcasts, blue and gold and white. That round logo. There was a bruise slowly developing over his ribs where he’d kicked out and struggled. In vain.

Well. At least so far, Overwatch hadn’t been overly rough or abusive with him. He’d been given a prison jumpsuit to wear, even if the orange colour was frankly offensive to his eyes, and earlier a female omnic guard had watched sullenly as Jesse wolfed down a small tuna sandwich and a carton of apple juice. He’d heard of worse experiences in lockup. But his legs _were_ starting to go numb.

Jesse squirmed a little and turned to look at the door, which was currently closed and locked. The room was small, a perfect cube with a fairly low ceiling, and he supposed it had something to do with inducing claustrophobia and provoking a confession. Even if Jesse strained his ears, there was no sound of the regular _stomp stomp stomp_ of guards on patrol outside, which meant that the room was soundproof. He wasn’t sure if the thought calmed or worried him. With nothing much else to do, he began studying the lines on his palms and tapping his nails against the fake wood tabletop. His cuffs weren’t overly tight, but they were secure, and Jesse knew there was no way out of them on his own. There was nothing to do but wait.

A few minutes later, the door abruptly swung open and in walked in a tall, dark skinned man. Jesse immediately sat up straighter in the chair. The man was well built and dressed in combat gear, a carbon fibre vest over a grey hoodie and a manila folder tucked under one arm. The hood was pulled up over his head, and Jesse could barely make out the features of his face in the dim light. Though the bagginess of the hoodie covered his upper body, the well-built muscles in his legs were immediately apparent.

He looked like he could have beaten a confession out of Jesse without breaking a sweat.

The thought made Jesse swallow nervously, though he tried to hide it. He didn’t even know what Overwatch wanted from him. An interrogation, that much was obvious, but what kind? As far as he could tell, pretty much all of Deadlock had been busted in a single swoop. Maybe there had been a few stragglers that got away? He thought for a moment. If there had been, it would have been Shamlin. He’d never been that trustworthy. Would have made off at the first sign of trouble. Or perhaps they hadn’t found all the caches yet, and that’s what they wanted him to tell them.

Jesse suddenly wasn’t so sure he’d ever see the outside light of day again.

The man stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at Jesse and his current state. Then he snorted loudly, the sound overly loud in the tiny room. The door was shut and locked behind him, and he pulled a chair out to sit across the table from the prisoner. Jesse said nothing.

After a few moments, the man pulled down his hood. Underneath it he was wearing a black beanie cap on his head. For some reason, this made Jesse laugh.

“Yeah, laugh it up kid. I find your zip tied ankles and orange jumpsuit pretty hilarious as well.”

Jesse shut up pretty quickly after that. His voice was low and gruff, accent somewhat city-like. Urban fella, Jesse guessed. He had a few scars on his face. Maybe he was ex-gang too.

His interrogator reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a cigarillo and lighter, flicking the lighter once, twice. Took a drag on it, and blew the smoke out from the side of his mouth. Slowly, eminently aware of Jesse’s widened eyes, he placed both booted feet on the table and leaned back in his chair in a relaxed sprawl. Jesse stared at his boots. They were the heavy, military kind. The kind that could kick a fella to death.

“I’m not here to kill you, punk, so stop sweating.”

“I’m not sweating,” Jesse replied, too quickly, although he could feel the sheen of sweat forming on his brow. When had he last showered anyway? He couldn’t actually remember. That usually wasn’t a good sign.

A slow, rumbling laugh that somewhat reminded Jesse of a landslide down in the gorge. He spoke. “Kid, I’ve seen a thousand punks just like you. And you know what? They always lie about being afraid. Scared they’ll be thought a coward.” He blew out a cloud of pale grey smoke from between his lips. “It ain’t about being afraid that makes you a coward. It’s letting it control you that’s the problem.”

Jesse decided to test the waters.

“Are you here to lecture me? Because I think it’s a bit late for that, honestly.”

“You got a quick mouth on you, ingrate.” He sounded somewhat amused at Jesse’s flippancy.

“Yessir,” Jesse drawled, and he could see the corners of his interrogator’s mouth quirk up in a smirk. Bingo. “Lotsa people said that was my best and worst feature all in one.”

“Bet it won’t be your best feature if you’re missin’ all those nice white teeth, would it?” The man replied in a completely casual tone, and Jesse stopped smiling immediately.

Right. Overwatch. They were here to interrogate him, not make casual conversation.

The man smoked in silence for a few more minutes, before slapping the manilla folder down onto the table. The top page slid out. Jesse leaned over to read it. It was a brief biography of himself, details neatly printed in ink. Out the window went any plan of trying to fake his age, or his place of birth. How the hell did they even _access_ all of this?

 _Name: McCree, Jesse Á._  
_Age: 17_  
_Place of birth: Sante Fe, New Mexico, U.S.A._

“That’s me,” Jesse said, rather stupidly. He bit his lip.

“Sure is,” replied the man. And then he leaned forward, front chair legs hitting the concrete floor with a loud and abrupt bang. He opened the folder further, and Jesse could see photos of himself, several computer printouts from online news sources, and a slim holoprojector.

“You wanna know who I am, punk?” asked the man, as he pulled out a rather embarrassing photo from Jesse’s middle school days, all freckled and red faced.

“You’re Overwatch.”

“I’m Captain Reyes,” he replied, and snorted softly at the picture, setting it back down onto the table. “ _Mierda_ , you were one ugly ass kid.”

“That’s rude.”

“That’s rude,  _sir_ ,” he replied, not even looking up at Jesse. “Well, look at this. Average school career, top marks in shop class, biology, and English. Didn’t pick you for the English type.”

“Well sir,” said Jesse flippantly, “I wrote a swell essay on Huckleberry Finn in the ninth grade.”

“Don’t get cocky, it ain’t cute.” He pulled out another document and began reading it in earnest. “Well well well, didn’t finish high school. Parents unknown. What happened to them, huh?”

“I ain’t tellin’ you that.” Jesse replied, too quickly.

Now Reyes looked up. His expression was unreadable, eyes dark.

“You underestimate what it is within my ability to do or find out,” he said in a tone of voice that made Jesse’s gut churn. “But I won’t press it.” He looked down at the document again. “Began running with the Deadlock gang around age fifteen. That’s young. What was it, needed your pot fix?”

“I ain’t never smoked pot, sir,” Jesse said, which was a lie. “It was… it was somethin’ else.” The next part wasn’t a lie, but he wasn’t about to elaborate. Not to him.

His interrogator’s face was perfectly composed. The scars on his face were straight lines, Jesse realized. Either he had once been in a close quarters knife fight, or they were the result of torture. He swallowed nervously.

“You want your freedom?” Reyes asked, in a low voice. “You want those cuffs off your wrists and that jumpsuit off your back? You ever wanna feel your hand around a gun again?”

Jesse scowled. “I’m a criminal. I’m not stupid. I ain’t ever holding a gun again.”

Reyes stared at him for a second, before shaking his head. “Yeah, you’re a criminal. You’re a goddamn criminal. And you know what? If you play your cards smart, you can get out of here. _If_ you’re smart.” He smiled at Jesse, showing a perfect set of teeth. It was that smile that years later Jesse would always remember about him. The smile of a predator.

“How?” he asked.

“Don’t play dumb. You’ve had enough time to think it over, sittin’ here on your ass with nothing to do but twiddle your thumbs. An Overwatch sting operation brings down the infamous Deadlock gang; all of its members are currently in custody. All of its illegal assets are seized, its hideouts infiltrated. Its ranks include military vets, con artists, thugs, drug dealers, arms dealers—so why the hell am I talking to _you_ , Jesse McCree?”

Suddenly, it clicked.

“You want me. You want to hire me.”

Reyes laughed, sharp and piercing in the quiet of the interrogation room.

“I’m not _hiring_ you. I’m giving you a choice, boy. The only choice that matters now. The rest of your groupies, they’re never setting foot outside of maximum security lockup for the rest of their days. But you… Overwatch has heard about you. Brilliant, for your age. Resourceful. Intelligent. A real strategist in the making’s what we heard. And—”

“Yes, sir?”

“—they say you’re one of the best sharpshooters around these parts. That’s what _I_ heard, at least.”

Jesse stared straight into Reyes’ coal black eyes. He was waiting for something.

“I ain’t _one_ of the best sharpshooters around here, sir.” Jesse said, with confidence he was only half faking. “I _am_ the best. There ain’t nobody who can shoot like me.”

A few moments passed, absolutely silent. Then Reyes smiled, a slow, deadly thing. And Jesse knew he’d passed the first test.

Reyes slapped the folder shut, got to his feet and walked over to the door. He pulled his hoodie back up over his head before he knocked, barking out orders to whoever was outside when it opened.

“Somebody get this kid a shower, a decent meal and give him back his clothes.” He turned back to Jesse. “You’ve got three days to think over my offer. I’ll be back.” And then he was gone.

Jesse slumped as far back in his chair as his restraints would allow. A choice. He was being given a choice. Rotting for the rest of his life in prison, or joining Overwatch. Joining Reyes.

It wasn’t even a choice at all. But of course, that’s what they wanted. They wanted him, and they got him.

“Son of a bitch.” Jesse said, into the silent, empty room. Reyes didn’t need to ask him anything at all.

 

* * *

 

The next three days were spent in relative solitude. He was given back his clothes, save for the hat, and anything that could have been used as a weapon. Meals were provided to him in his cell, nothing fancy but nothing indigestible either. Boiled veg. Dull slabs of beef. A single bread roll or some mash. More cartons of juice or milk. He was offered one phone call to a relative or a friend. Jesse laughed at the offer. The only people he’d talked to in the past few years were now in prison themselves. Who would Jesse McCree talk to? Seventeen years old, a criminal.

He figured he’d never see any of the old gang again. He’d never been extremely close to any of them, but they’d treated him fairly decent. Like he was one of their own. It hurt, somewhat, knowing that he’d never laugh around a game of cards with them again, never fall off one of the hoverbikes, bash his head and hear the roaring sound of laughter as they hauled him up off the ground and dusted him down.

On the fourth morning, as Jesse lay listlessly on his bunk, feet propped up against the wall and head resting on the thin pillow, there was a knock on the bars. He leaned his head back farther over the edge of the bunk to see Reyes, upside down, accompanied by one of the wardens. He pulled himself up to sit on the flat pillow.

“Mornin’ pardner,” he said jovially.

Silence.

“Uh, you’re here for my answer, right? Not really much of a choice, when you think about it. I’ll join your little superhero boy band, Mister Reyes. Just let me know if you want me to be Iron Man or the Winter Soldier.”

Reyes’ eyes flickered once. “Not Captain America?” he asked neutrally.

Jesse grinned. “Nah. He’s not really my type, ya know. Too… upright. Too shiny.”

Reyes folded his arms across his chest. “Captain America ain’t all shiny and chrome, kid. You’d know that if you really paid attention. Anyway, get your ass off that bunk. We’ve got work to do.”

The cell door swung open. Jesse walked out.

  

* * *

 

He sat in the back of the truck with Reyes, hovertires at a low hum as they sped along the highway. No other cars for miles and miles around, somewhere in the Texas wilderness, together with a sour faced agent who only introduced himself as Li. The truck was currently on auto-drive, so he was flipping through a battered old travel brochure and glancing sideways at McCree every so often.

Reyes gave Jesse the rundown of the inauguration process. One official interview which would be conducted by a senior agent, mandatory background checks, a medical examination, several reports collected over time from senior officers and other agents, and then finally an assessment test. If the agent passed, all of that would then be collaborated into an official digital agent profile and be entered into the system. They’d already done the background checks, Reyes had told him. His criminal past was now Overwatch’s.

It sounded like pretty intense stuff. If he had to be honest, Jesse still wasn’t sure exactly why he was here. Reyes had mentioned that he was being selected for his skills, but surely there were other skilled young people they could be recruiting. People who would be… less of a security risk. So what was he for? Some kind of poster boy for rehabilitation? The diversity quota?

The more he thought about it, the more his mood soured. He decided to engage Reyes directly, who was flicking through a paper report in the back of the truck and looking bored.

“So where we going, pardner?” he asked casually, slotting his hands underneath his thighs and feeling the worn fabric of his jeans. They’d finally given him back his hat, and he’d been grateful to put it back on, even if now it had a slightly funny smell to it. The gun was long gone. He tried not to think about it.

Reyes didn’t answer. From the front of the truck, Li snorted.

“Did I say somethin’ funny?” Jesse retorted. He turned to Reyes again. “Hey, pardner, did I say something funny or what? Mister Li over there’s been giving me the stinkeye even since we started drivin’.”

“He’s not going to answer you if you keep calling him that,” Li replied in a smug tone of voice, not looking up from his brochure. “Learn some respect, brat.”

Jesse looked up. Reyes was staring at him, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

“Oh. Uh, gee... sorry. Sir.” The word sounded foreign in his mouth.

“Better,” Reyes finally murmured. He flicked to the next page of the report. “We’re heading to L.A.”

“For my assessment?”

“Of a sorts.” Reyes skimmed through the report for a few more moments, sighed audibly, and closed it. He pulled out a datapad instead from inside his jacket. “You might as well get some sleep. We’re gonna be traveling for a while.”

Jesse didn’t feel at all sleepy, and it was the middle of the day. The sun was blazing outside, even though the truck’s windows were shaded. He decided to lean closer to Reyes instead. “I ain’t that sleepy, sir. What are _you_ up to?”

The hand that shot out and gripped his arm moved as quickly as lightning. Jesse stared down at his wrist dumbly in shock. The solid weight of Reyes’ large fingers and palm was gripped entirely around his wrist, pressure carefully applied to be threatening but not enough to snap bone. He was wearing gloves, even in the heat. He was _ridiculously_ strong.

“I said to get some sleep, punk.” An order. The hand left Jesse’s wrist.

Jesse got the message. He slunk over to the far side of the seat, scowled, and pulled his hat over his eyes. If Reyes wanted to be a hard-ass, then _fine_.

One truck ride and one uncomfortable flight later they arrived in Los Angeles, and Jesse was bustled from the small hovercraft to a tall, sleek building downtown. They used a back entrance, and Jesse was hurried along a series of long hallways that seemed to twist and turn with no pattern to them. Agents in full Overwatch gear passed him at every turn, giving him odd glances. Jesse supposed he did look a bit out of place, even if he was tall for his age and he had a fair amount of scruff on his face. Badly placed scruff, in his opinion, that wouldn’t grow in the right places.

Eventually they approached an elevator and Li remained behind, giving Reyes a quick wave of his hand. Jesse was merely given a dirty look, which he returned with enthusiasm when Reyes wasn’t looking. As they walked through the metal doors, Jesse could see a brief blue flash of a scanning system, and then Reyes’ face appeared on a screen where normally the list of buttons would go. Probably his official system portrait. He looked fairly stern.

_Reyes, Gabriel. Clearance Level 9._

He didn’t know what that meant. A polite, automated voice came in over the comms system.

“Greetings, Captain Reyes. The person with you has not yet been assigned a clearance level or a digital profile.”

“Alpha level override, Reyes, G. He’s with me.”

“Confirmed. Which level?”

“Medical.”

“Confirmed.”

The doors slid shut noiselessly, and they began their ascent. It was an internal elevator, so no stunning views of Los Angeles, but instead merely the concrete skeleton of the building. Boring. Jesse stared at the floor counter instead. There were so many of them. So many floors. He’d never been in a building this tall before.

“Not used to all this fancy stuff eh?” came Reyes’ voice, and Jesse nearly jumped. The captain was leaning against the polished metal rail with a faintly amused expression. He seemed to be enjoying every moment of Jesse’s discomfort.

“Guess not,” Jesse replied. “I grew up in a… more old fashioned part of town. They had only just started gettin’ hover vehicles when I left.”

“Took me a while to get used to all this too,” Reyes offered. He didn’t offer any more than that. The two of them lapsed into silence. When the doors slid open, Reyes made no move to get out. He nodded at Jesse. “This is your floor.”

Uh. Well that was useful. Jesse faltered. “What am I supposed to be doing here?”

“They’ll be waiting for you. Agent Li will collect you later.” And _that_ was a dismissal if Jesse had ever heard one. Hesitantly, he stepped outside and the doors slid shut behind him.

He stared down the hallway. This floor looked like a hospital wing. An omnic was standing a few feet away from the elevator patiently, dressed in scrubs. They softly floated over to him. “Jesse McCree?”

“Uh, that’s me.”

The omnic asked him to take off his shoes, and took his height and weight. Then they gestured down the hallway.

“Please follow me. Dr. Ziegler is waiting for you.”

Dr. Ziegler, Jesse thought, was probably some old white man who would ask him a bunch of boring and slightly invasive questions. He was shocked, to say the least, to see the young woman in the examination room.

“Uh… ma’am?”

The young woman turned around. Long blonde hair tied up in a ponytail, small face. Nice features. She was cute. She was real cute. Jesse found himself blushing involuntarily, anxiously rubbing at the sleeve of his left arm. He wished he had rolled them up on the way, but he didn’t want anyone to see his forearms just yet.

Dr. Ziegler didn’t seem at all fazed by Jesse’s discomfort. She clapped her hands together in excitement. “You’re Jesse? Oh how wonderful!”

A slight, faint accent. One that he couldn’t place. Foreign, though.

“You’re… the doctor?”

“Yes!” she said breathlessly. And before Jesse could open his mouth again, she continued. “Yes, I’m Angela Ziegler. Please, just call me Angela. I’m here to perform your official medical examination.”

Jesse merely nodded slowly. She looked really young, way too young to be a doctor.

“An-y-way,” she said slowly, when Jesse made no move to reply, “I’m going to let you get undressed now. Here—” she handed him a medical gown, “—just put that on, and I’ll come back in in a minute.”

Jesse stared down at the gown. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a doctor’s clinic. “...everything off…?” he asked falteringly. 

“Yep!” at the look on his face, she laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before!”

Well. That was reassuring. He gave her a fake smile. She came back in after a few minutes, as Jesse was sitting awkwardly on the examination table reading a poster regarding healthy eating habits. Her eyes immediately narrowed in on the tattoo on his left forearm, but she kept her mouth shut.

“...right,” she began, “since you’re a new patient and this is part of your agent profile, we’re going to have to start from the beginning.”

Jesse didn’t like the sound of that. Angela went on. “So I need to ask you some tricky questions, I’m sorry.”

Jesse shifted his legs. The bed was cold. The room was cold too. Sterile. “Fire away, doc,” he muttered. 

She pulled out a datapad and a digital pen. “Overwatch doesn’t have any past medical records on you, so I’m going to ask you to think back. Any significant past diseases or illnesses? Surgery? Complications?”

“No.”

“Okay... drug history. Are you currently on any drugs? Either prescribed or over-the-counter? Any allergies?”

Jesse said nothing. He merely blinked at her. She returned his blank look.

“Is that… a no, Jesse? You can be honest with me, I’m not here to judge you. I’m just here to help.”

The air between them was cold.

“I promise you, Overwatch doesn’t judge its agents.”

Jesse sighed. “I’m not on any… legal drugs,” he said carefully, hoping she got the message. “And I ain’t been… takin’ anything else for a while. I’m not actually… sure exactly what I’ve taken, to be honest.”

She frowned. “You’re not sure?”

He scowled. “When people give you shit you don’t always ask what it is, alright? You just take the damn stuff, doc. I definitely smoked some weed once, though. That the kind of answer you’re lookin’ for?” This felt more like an interrogation. Were medical exams always like this?

Angela looked uncomfortable. She checked her notes again. “Um… okay. Uh… what about your family history?”

Jesse shook his head. “I know absolutely nothin’ about that. No point asking me.”

“You know nothing? Nothing at all?”

“No sirree.”

“Didn’t your parents ever let you know about certain family traits? Diseases?”

Jesse sat forward, arms crossed. Even though he was currently wearing nothing under the thin gown, he felt like the most powerful one in the room. “Look, sister. You even read my file?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“An’ you know I was part of a gang.”

“Well… yes.”

“So let me get this straight. You know I’m part of a gang and yet you still think I got two loving parents who would sit me down and talk about the _family_? All of our goddamn disease history? You think that ever came up?”

She conceded. “When you put it that way… I guess… I’m sorry. I’m still new at this. I just want you to feel comfortable here.”

“Just carry on, it’s fine.”

She looked down at her datapad again and made a note. “Uh, any siblings or children?”

“I don’t… think so. None that I know of.”

She made a face at her screen. “Smoking? Alcohol?”

“Yes and yes.”

“How often?”

“Uh, I bummed a few cigarettes off some of the older guys a few times, nothin’ too serious, just when I was stressed out. Drank a few rounds with them maybe… once, twice a week? Never got that drunk or nothin’. I’m not an alcoholic.”

“I’m not saying you are,” she said carefully. “I assume you are not married.”

Jesse laughed. It echoed in the small room. “Definitely not.”

“And… your accommodation and living arrangements before Overwatch? You were living with the Deadlock gang on Route 66, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“What was that like? Shared bedrooms at the hideout?”

“No, more like you got a bed a few times a week when you were quick and the other times you were shit out of luck or on watch.”

“Oh.” She wrote that down. “Did anyone there ever… experience open wounds?”

“You askin’ if anyone ever got shot or shanked?”

“I guess?”

“Yeah, people got done in. Some people died too. I ain’t never got shot though. Not yet.”

She inhaled audibly. “Were you ever exposed to significant quantities of blood that wasn’t your own?”

“Not really.”

“I assume you don’t know your immunization history?”

“I know that I don’t think I ever had any, yeah.”

As the exam went on, the mood in the room began to visibly sour. Ziegler would ask all sorts of questions, Jesse would reply vaguely, and she would either look upset or exasperated at his answers. By the time she got to the physical examination, Jesse thought he might possibly go mad. Luckily, her inexperience with the verbal part of the exam didn’t seem to carry over to the physical, and she moved through all the tests with confident ease. She seemed more comfortable when she could simply go through the motions and not have to look at him.

That was fine, he guessed. Clearly this fancy Overwatch doctor didn’t like being in the room with a criminal. She was probably some kind of private school kid. Rich family, good education. Got taught to sympathize with the poor kids, but didn’t necessarily like being around them. Hypocrites.

As they got to the end, Jesse could tell there was one thing she was putting off asking him. Finally, he’d had enough.

“You gonna ask about my sexual history?”

“Is there anything to know?” she shot back.

Ouch. That was a good one. Even Angela looked mildly surprised at herself.

“Well uh… I’m not a virgin.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “How many sexual partners have you had in the past year?”

“Uh… not that many, honestly. There was like… a few encounters sometimes? Not all the way. Maybe two or three?” He scratched his head.

“When you say not all the way, what do you mean? Oral?”

He really didn’t want to answer that question. She continued, sensing his discomfort. “Do you think there’s any risk of you having an STI? Do you have any symptoms? Any itching down there?”

“Nothin’, honestly.” At least he was being truthful about that.

She nodded. “Then we can get a blood and urine sample and that should be fine.”

“Am I… done?”

She exhaled loudly. “Yes, I think we’re done. You can put your clothes back on now.”

He never wanted to do that again.

  

* * *

 

A few days later, Jesse found himself sitting in another impersonal square cube of a room, air conditioning on at full blast.

He’d been waiting here for about half an hour, triumphantly deposited by Agent Li, who had seemingly been assigned as his babysitter during the recruitment process. Li seemed about as enthused by the situation as Jesse did, which is to say they barely interacted at all unless they had to. McCree had been given a ‘guest bedroom’ somewhere on the bottom levels of the building, and orders not to go anywhere. Not that he could have, anyway. The security in this place was more high-tech and intricate than anywhere else he’d ever been. Or broken into. He’d seen several people walking around with guest IDs, but so far he’d been unable to swipe one. Besides, even if he left his room, which was boring as all hell and offered no outside views, he’d barely make it to the elevator before some agent would apprehend him. Li had made it very clear. He was here under recruitment clearance only, and it was very clear to him that he was still currently deemed the biggest security threat on base. He could easily fail the process and be sent straight back to the prison where they had gotten him from, destined for maximum security, cigarette rations, and improvised shanks the moment he hit eighteen.

Jesse had spitefully swiped Li’s watch from his wrist when the older agent hadn’t been watching. So far, Li hadn’t even noticed. Some kind of secret agent _he_ was.

Jesse grinned to himself.

The door quietly opened behind him, and he turned at the sound. In stepped in a woman dressed sharply in a business suit and heels. Her hair was dark and neatly braided back from her forehead, and her lips were painted a crimson red. She was an older lady, crow’s feet at the edges of her eyes and fine lines on her forehead, but her eyes were sharp.

Jesse subconsciously sat up straighter in the chair as she walked towards the desk and neatly sat down across from him. She pulled out a slim case and from it came a sleek laptop and a notepad and pen, which she set down on the desk at her left. Then from somewhere underneath the desk she pulled out two bottles of water. She handed one to him, twisted open the cap of her own and took a long drink. When she had finished, the cap was placed back on and the bottle went to her right. Then she spoke.

“Hello, Jesse.” Her voice was low and quiet, but Jesse could hear the authority in it. “I’m Agent Adeyemi. I will be conducting your interview today.”

Ah, the interview. Nobody had informed him it would be today. Then they wanted it from him cold. No prep.

“Interview makes it all sound like I’m here for a job,” Jesse replied. “I gotta say, this has all been pretty weird so far.”

She smiled. “Let’s begin.”

Jesse shifted around on his chair and slipped both of his hands under his thighs, palms flat against the plastic. She typed in a few words on her laptop, and then pressed the enter key.

“Agent assessor: Adeyemi, Timilehin. Commencing Overwatch agent assessment of McCree, Jesse. August 19, 2056, 9:08am. Hello, Jesse.”

“Uh, howdy ma’am.”

She spoke clearly and confidently for the recording. Definitely not her first rodeo. “This interview will be recorded and filed for official Overwatch purposes. It will not be publicly available to any outside party or organization. Throughout this interview I will be taking notes by hand, which will be privately assessed by Captain Gabriel Reyes and Commander John Morrison at a later time to determine your suitability among Overwatch’s ranks. Do you understand this, Jesse?”

“Y-yes ma’am.”

“Please state your acknowledgement of the confidentiality of this interview.”

“I, uh, I acknowledge.”

“Please state your first and last names and current age.”

“Jesse McCree, seventeen.”

“Thank you. First question…” she pulled up a document on the screen and began scrolling casually. “How many languages are you fluent in?”

“Uh, two. English and Spanish.”

“Any others that you have partial fluency in?”

“I know a few words of French…?” Jesse said slowly.

She nodded. “Are there any languages that you believe would be in your capabilities to learn?”

What kind of question was _that_? “Uh, I dunno, I don’t know if I could rightly say… maybe Italian, I guess? That’s similar to Spanish?”

She made a small scribbling down on her notepad. Jesse couldn’t read it from across the table. 

“Are you proficient in accents in both English and Spanish?”

“Are you askin’ me if I can like, change my voice?”

“Yes.”

“Well… shit, I have no idea. Never tried.”

She looked up from her notes. “Could you try one for me now?”

“Anythin’?”

“Anything.”

Well fuck, that was gonna be embarrassing. Slowly he opened his mouth and attempted a lousy Boston accent.

Her lips pursed into a very thin line, and she made another quick notation.

“Was that bad?” he asked quickly.

“I am unable to comment.”

“Shit. Wait, this is bein’ recorded ain’t it? Uh, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about profanity during this interview. I need a complete sense of your personality as it truly is.”

He didn’t know what to make of that, so he said nothing at all.

She continued. “Your criminal file states that you were a member of the Deadlock gang prior to now. You are proficient in the use of firearms.”

“Yeah.”

“Which kinds?”

Jesse told her. If she was impressed or aghast, she didn’t show it. Her face remained perfectly composed.

“What about other weaponry?”

“Uh, not really. Never had the chance.”

“Are you proficient in any martial arts or other forms of combat?”

“...does fist fightin’... count?”

She raised one thin eyebrow and made a notation. “Any religious affiliations?”

“Is that even legal to ask?” he quipped.

“We only ask in the case of death where your remains are recoverable, in which case Overwatch would be able to give you a suitable funeral according to your religious needs.”

Oh.

“Uh,” Jesse began hesitantly, “I was raised Catholic, I guess. But you wouldn’t need no fancy funeral arrangements for me.”

She let out a small _hm_.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she replied neutrally. “Nothing at all.”

Jesse sighed. She was a closed book. There was no use pressing her, and he didn’t doubt Overwatch had eyes on him right now. The agent continued her questioning. 

“Do you know how to drive various vehicles?”

“Cars and trucks and shit, yeah.”

“Old fashioned or hover?”

“Both. But uh, not legally.”

“That’s fine, we can get you permissions and a test for those. Do you play any musical instruments?”

“Wait, what?”

“Answer the question please.”

“Well no, shit, no I don’t, I wasn’t one of those private school kids, there was no money for that crap. I don’t know, I can sorta strum some strings on a guitar?”

She kept going, asking him a seemingly random assortment of questions, some of which seemed relevant, some that came completely out of left field. He wasn’t sure if it was some sort of psychological evaluation as well, disguised under simple knowledge gathering. He was starting to sense Overwatch wasn’t exactly all that the posters and newscasts made it out to be.

She finished with a few odd questions about his music and film preferences, and finally pressed a button on her keyboard. “Agent assessment completed. Thank you, Jesse.”

“Uh… thanks.”

She smiled sweetly, all a façade, and quickly collected her materials. “Agent Li will be along shortly to escort you back to your quarters.”

“...do I get to know how I did?” Jesse asked, twisting in the chair as she approached the door. “Did I pass?”

“No,” she replied bluntly. “I’m afraid that’s up to Commander Morrison and Captain Reyes.”

Reyes again. And now this Morrison guy too.

The door shut behind her. Jesse slumped back down in his chair.

Agent Li came and collected him, a silent escort back to the confinement of his ‘bedroom.’ There was a meal left out for him on the crisply made bed. All packaged and vacuum sealed. He ripped open the packet of chips first, shoving a handful of salty goodness into his mouth. He settled himself back down onto the sheets. Nobody would be coming for him for the rest of the night. He could shower and sleep as he pleased, even if there was nothing to do. No holoset, no computer. No windows.

It actually wasn’t too bad, he supposed, even if he had traded one cell for a slightly more glammed up one. At least in this one he could probably whack off a few rounds without anyone knowing.

It was in the shower later that Jesse remembered suddenly where he recognized the names. Morrison, Reyes. The heroes of the Omnic Crisis.

He slid down onto the soapy floor of the shower with the revelation. The spray was hitting his face directly, getting into his eyes, but he couldn’t quite find it within himself to care. It was hitting him like a freight train. These were the kind of people he was surrounded by, now. Morrison and Reyes.

Over ten years ago, together, they had saved the world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I love my Blackwatch agents. I hope you love them too. I can't make any promises on whether or not they'll survive the story though.


	7. there's a hole in you and me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "if you knew all that I knew, my poor Jerusalem,  
> you'd see the truth, but you close your eyes."
> 
> Note: As of **29/10/2016** , chapter one has been REVISED AND UPDATED. A second read through would be most welcomed and appreciated!

♛

“Once you figure out how to play the game, you figure out how to play ball in the white man’s world.” —Gabriel Reyes

 

* * *

 

 **TEN YEARS EARLIER  
** **10:43. LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA.**

 

They hadn’t told him he would have to do this in front of other people. Reyes? Sure. Morrison? Fine. But not an entire gaggle of agents, like a flock of geese, watching him struggle and suffer and most likely laughing at his frustration.

He stared down at the page with a miserable expression. The words moved like wisps of white cloud in the air, dancing and taunting him with their incomprehensibility. A sidestep here, a pirouette there, moving around in such a way that they wouldn’t stay _still_.

_If the train is moving west at 150 miles per hour… If Sera buys fifteen cookies at the store… Decipher the logical pattern depicted in the diagram below…_

Jesse scowled down at the page. This had to be a joke. Six months since he’d been plucked from the jaws of prison and thrown into this agent assessment. Overwatch: an international taskforce deployed all over the globe to solve the world’s crises, the best and brightest humanity had to offer, and here he was. Back again with written exam problems that didn’t make any sense however much he squinted and swore at them.

“You’re still seventeen,” Agent Li had said smugly, when Jesse had complained. “You’re under legal age in most places around the world, and you didn’t finish high school. You should be grateful command even bothered to supply you with test prep to help you get your GED before we make you take our exam. Besides, the written test is a given for all agents. No one’s allowed to skip out on it. Not even _special cases_ like you.”

That’s who he was, apparently—a special case. Overwatch’s special case, overlooking his juvenile criminal past in order to turn a new leaf. The media had gotten hold of his name somewhere. Jesse McCree, the southwestern son turning over a new leaf in Overwatch, _imagine what they could do for you! Join today!_

They were investigating the breach, of course, but Jesse had heard whilst eavesdropping in the hallways that several reporters from various news stations had put in a request to be granted an interview with him in order to prepare a special report on how Overwatch was changing the lives of young offenders across the country. Each request had been systematically denied for legal reasons.

“This is stupid,” Jesse muttered under his breath, as he cleared his frantic scribbling on the workpad for the hundredth time. The GED test had been easy as pie, but this section of the exam seemed impossible.

He skipped down to the end of the page.

_The following question is worth twenty points. Read the statement carefully and choose the correct answer._

A whole twenty points. Every other question in this section was worth a single point each, and Jesse knew how many he needed to pass. He knew he’d aced the rest of the exam. Which meant all of the useless guesses he’d made on the math problems for the last forty-five minutes wouldn’t mean anything if he could just get this one right. He’d still have enough to get through.

“You have fifteen minutes left,” came the voice of the proctor in a dull monotone from the front of the room, an omnic with an ill fitting white blouse and hat. Behind them he could see a large window that showed an upstairs viewing room, where Jesse could see Morrison, Reyes, Adeyemi, and a whole bunch of other faces he didn’t recognize. Like that scene from that one movie, when Katniss had to show off her chosen skill to the judges. He wasn’t armed with a bow and arrow, but he still felt like he might be walking to his probable demise.

_Agatha: Cecilia was a soldier who was captured during the Omnic Crisis and pressed for information by her interrogators. She revealed to them knowledge of a new strategy that could have dramatically changed the course of the war that was so far unknown to anyone else but her. Janet, a spy, then revealed her personal journals, which showed that she had had knowledge of the strategy and had been working with it for least ten years prior to Cecilia’s confession. Janet then made a statement that she had disclosed the strategy in a letter that had been read by Cecilia before the confession. Yet close examination of the letter revealed that the letter only contained a few cryptic remarks regarding the strategy, which would not have been enough for Cecilia to have received all of the information. Therefore, both Cecilia and Janet independently formulated the same strategy._

_Which one of the following is an assumption required by Agatha’s argument?_

Jesse reread the question. He frowned at it. Tapped on the desk with his pen for a few short moments. Then he wrote his answer, triumphant.

 

* * *

 

“‘The argument assumes that Cecilia the soldier and Janet the spy aren’t the same person’,” Reyes read out loud, holding the datapad at arm’s length across the table.

Jesse nodded. “Yeah. Wasn’t so bad. That question didn’t even compare to half of those other ones they gave me. Those ones were _hard_. Math’s a real downer.”

Reyes sniffed. “And the spider was necessary?” Said spider sat neatly on the dotted line next to Jesse’s answer, wearing a Stetson and wielding a tiny smoking gun. He’d done very well for himself in the world. He’d procured himself boots for all seven of his other legs.

Jesse grinned. “Yep.” He’d put a lot of effort into that spider, actually. He’d had a whole ten minutes to perfect it.

He received a single raised eyebrow in response, dark and quizzical. Jesse allowed the corner of his mouth to creep upward.

“Where did the other boot go?” Reyes asked, finally.

“The other boot?”

“Your friend is wearing seven. Unless you can somehow buy boots in singles, he had to have one spare. What did he do with it?”

Jesse now knew a test when he saw it. “He sold it, sir.”

“Sold it. And whom would buy a single boot?”

“A… worm, sir.”

The room was silent.

Reyes drew in another deep breath. “He’s saying ‘howdy’.”

“‘Course he is, sir. He’s happy to see you.”

The datapad clattered loudly onto the desk. “Well, apart from the fact your answer’s, uh, _wrong_ , you didn’t do too badly. Morrison actually thought your little drawing was cute, so. Points with him, I guess.”

Jesse’s mouth dropped open in a gape. “What? It’s _wrong_? How come? I swear it ain’t.”

Reyes crossed his arms, leaned far back in his chair. They were sitting in the same room where Adeyemi had conducted Jesse’s interview. Today was the day he would find out if he would be officially becoming an agent of Overwatch, or getting the next ride back to prison.

“The official answer,” Reyes began, “which would have got you twenty points, is that ‘the assumption made by Agatha’s argument is that neither Cecilia nor Janet had already received intel about the strategy from a third source’.”

Jesse slumped in his chair. The commander continued. “But, despite the fact that you didn’t get the points for that correct answer, you did prove to me what I’d been theorizin’ on since the day I saw you.”

Jesse sat up again. “What’s that, sir?”

“You’re not suitable for Overwatch.”

His face dropped. “Oh.”

It was back to jail for him, then. All of that hard work for nothing. He’d be sitting in a cell for the rest of his life, stewing in his own misery, watching his back every day and every night, never being able to feel that giddy rush of air leave his lungs as he pulled the trigger—

Reyes’ laugh startled him out of his thoughts. The boss was, inexplicably, grinning. “God, you should see your face. Got you there, didn’t I?”

“I don’t understand.” And he really didn’t. If he wasn’t suitable for Overwatch, then what was Reyes planning?

“‘Course you don’t. Here’s the thing, Jesse McCree. Overwatch is all well and good, but we’ve been… putting together a team for something slightly different. Overwatch has its parades and its research and its glory, but there’s something they’ve forgotten.”

The commander stuck his hand out for him to shake. Jesse stared at it dumbly. Reyes had never treated him quite like an equal before. He still wasn’t entirely sure what they were shaking _on_. But it didn’t seem now as though the dark shadow of prison was looming before him.

Hesitantly, he reached forward and took Reyes’ hand.

Immediately, reflexes like lightning, the larger man’s hand tightened around his, and Reyes yanked McCree halfway across the table, pulling him off his feet and knocking the breath out of him. His weight rested awkwardly on the tips of his toes and the bones of his hips were digging painfully into the hard surface of the desk. Jesse was wearing a borrowed sweater with the Overwatch logo on it, slightly too big for his frame, sleeves drooping down over his hands and reaching down mid-thigh. Reyes grabbed the baggy sleeve and pulled it up, baring his narrow wrist. Li’s watch sat there snugly, gleaming brightly, keeping perfect time.

Jesse grinned sheepishly. “Uh, I can explain that—”

“Li’s been looking for that thing for months. I knew you had it.”

“Um, well, I mean—wait, you _knew_ it was me?”

“I’m not the boss for nothing, brat. Now, I’m going to give you one chance, so it’d better be a good one. Did you steal it because he was pissin’ you off, or because you _could_? Answer truthfully.”

Jesse stared into Reyes’ eyes, biting his lip. The commander pulled him further over the table. Jesse could feel the burn in the balls of his feet.

“Well?”

“Both,” Jesse admitted.

Reyes smirked. “Overwatch doesn’t tolerate thievery.”

Jesse cursed internally. So he’d not only failed once, but twice, because of his own bad habits. His feet _hurt_.

Slowly, without letting go of the younger man, Reyes reached forward and undid the strap from around Jesse’s wrist. The heavy weight of the metal now felt cold against the skin of his wrist, but Reyes’ blood ran hot through his veins. Jesse could feel it through the light contact between them, skin to skin, warmth against cold. Despite his large fingers and his strength, his movements were delicate, precise. He dropped the watch in Jesse’s outstretched palm, like a magpie depositing its treasure.

“After our talk,” he said, voice even, “you’re going to go and give this back to Agent Li. And then you’re going to come find me. Don’t bring anything with you. You won’t need it, where we’re going.”

“Where we’re going?” Jesse asked. And then: “ _We_?”

“And when Agent Li inevitably gets pissed and asks you how the hell you swiped this from him and kept it all this time,” Reyes continued, not even stopping to acknowledge Jesse’s question, “this is what you’re going to say. Listen up, because I’m only going to say it once.”

Jesse held his breath.

“You tell him, ‘you should have been better.’ Repeat it.”

“You should have been better,” Jesse replied. His voice wasn’t as steady.

Reyes smiled. He closed Jesse’s fingers around the watch. “Congratulations, kid. Welcome to Blackwatch.”

 

* * *

 

Blackwatch. The new covert ops division, formulated in secret within the upper ranks of Overwatch and the U.N. Security Council. Its purpose: to take care of the business that Overwatch couldn’t. To deal with the dregs at the bottom of the cup. Its agents needed to be tougher, smarter, and thoroughly unattached to any outside strings.

To anybody in Overwatch possessing a clearance level under seven, it didn’t exist. Its assignments never saw the light of day, and its successes garnered no rewards. No red tape equaled no bureaucratic hold-up, less hoops to jump through, less hand shaking and smiling and posing for the camera. For somebody with a criminal past, Jesse became aware of a lot of highly classified information in a remarkably short period of time.

He approved of the idea. He just didn’t think this was quite what turning a new leaf meant. His Overwatch agent profile was sparse, his Blackwatch profile entirely non-existent. On record, Jesse McCree was a juvenile offender, approached by Overwatch in order to rehabilitate him and set him straight. His age gave him a free pass as far as the cameras were concerned. International privacy laws regarding minors protected Agent McCree. He posed for a few pictures that would and could only be used within private Overwatch media, had a carefully monitored interview designed to be a section of a new workplace video for fresh recruits. During the interview, behind the crew stood a woman who regarded him like a bird of prey, scanning the ground for small rodents. She had a sharp air about her, similar to Adeyemi. A dark tattoo underneath one eye.

He smiled, adjusted his tie, stated to the camera how happy he was to be working with Overwatch in order to make the world a better place, after having previously shunned it. None of that would ever be released to a third party.

 _Nice bullshit_ , Reyes had told him once he’d gotten back to base. _I almost believed it._

Jesse only shot him a grin, the one the girl with the camera had liked so much.

Blackwatch didn’t write anything down on paper, and only a select few things were in the databases, locked and encrypted and need-to-know only. Reyes held all the keys, doled them out as he saw fit. A special band, no more than twenty five of them at most. Jesse had been expecting a certain type of person. Ex-CIA, ex-MI6, maybe even some ex-Mossad. In his head, he conjured up the ideal of some ex-KGB assassin, untouched by time.

He briefly wondered just how long Reyes had been planning this. Did he have this sights on Jesse from the get go?

They landed in Canada, some patch of wilderness barely touched by Omnica, time or humanity itself. An underground facility, expansive in size and well equipped. A short drive to the mountains that were inhabited with all sorts of dangerous wildlife, the enormous sheets of ice and snow that would serve for survival training when the season drew near, and far away from Switzerland.

Jesse stopped in the doorway. They all stood there waiting for him. The eleventh hour invite to the party. Dressed in all black stealth gear, the logo stamped on their left shoulders. A skull, bleached white by the scorching desert sun. And a sword.

The sword strikes at what the shield can deflect no longer.

Jesse stared. The congregation stared back. There were a surprising number of omnics, he noticed. There were far more of them than there were humans. As one, they all stood up straighter at the sound of heavy boots on concrete floor. Jesse didn’t need to turn around to see who was behind him. They hadn’t been waiting for him at all.

“Welcome to the family,” Reyes said.

There were many names for what Blackwatch was formed to do. A few whispers in the right ears. A few palms to grease. A few blades in the dark. What Morrison couldn’t do, Reyes would.

 

* * *

 

The twenty-two recruits were put through a vigorous training regime, overseen by Captain Reyes himself. Lessons on tactics, survival. Combat techniques. Weapons training. Field medicine. The harsh and rapidly turbulent weather in the area made for the ideal conditions to test the limits of the human body and the average omnic chassis. Showing general proficiency in all areas and eventually aptitude in a suitable specialization would push you further up the ranks. If you lasted that long.

For the first time in his life, Jesse McCree had a bank account. More than one, in fact. He had a credit chip, linked to his name and profile. He learned not to use it on missions where it could be traced back to him. Cash only, or special credit chips designed strictly for that op. He got better in hiding his movements. He improved in attaching temporary artificial skin on his left arm, to hide the Deadlock skull. Aliases that were natural and easy to remember became easier to create. He learned quickly. Some of it felt like breathing. Some of it a hair’s breadth away from Deadlock. He was a seven-digit number in a database. 

Over the months and years, he grew taller, broader. One day, Jesse took some time off, paid for a bus ticket down to the city and bought himself a new hat. His old one he threw out.

The work came naturally to him. The teammates less so. The omnics stuck together. There were two agents who spoke to each other in a rapidly flowing, completely unintelligible creole. Jesse floated around from group to group. They were all skilled. And as far as he knew, he was the only ex-criminal on base. They were all older, mostly military, a few with scientific and medical backgrounds. Everyone knew his past here. McCree, the Deadlock Kid. The one Reyes had pulled from jail.

He was treated with a careful, cool air.

Eventually, he gave up.

 

* * *

 

On the screen, Ted Neeley threw his arms out in a gesture of submission, voiced raised in a falsetto, pleading for the Father to spare his life. Jesse nursed his cup of cocoa between his cold hands. 

He heard the heavy footsteps behind him just as the actor fell to his knees and nearly started out of his skin, a child caught out of bed.

“McCree. What the hell are you doing up?”

Jesse turned around slowly, guilty. “Um, I…” It was Reyes. He blushed furiously. Of all things for his commanding officer to catch him watching. He hit the pause button. “I’ll go to bed. Sorry sir.”

“Christ, McCree, I’m not your keeper. I’m just wondering why the hell—” Reyes frowned at the screen. “Is that... _Jesus Christ Superstar_?”

Oh God, he knew it.

“Yes,” Jesse replied miserably.

Reyes crossed his arms. The hour was late, but the commander was still in most of his combat gear. Body armour missing, but he still had on his customary boots and his Blackwatch jacket.

A few moments of complete silence fell between them. And then Reyes open his mouth, incredulous. “McCree, why the hell are you up at four a.m. watching this? My grandmother was a _teenager_ when this came out.”

“Because…” Jesse trailed off. “Because, uh, I got kicked out of my bunk. And then I watched all of _The Dark Tower._ And then—wait, you _know_ when this was released? I knew it was old, but I didn’t realise—”

“You got kicked out? Who the hell by?” Reyes’ voice had taken on a more serious air.

Jesse quickly debated in his head. Was it worth throwing his bunkmates under the bus? They’d dislike him a lot more if he did, but he couldn’t refuse to answer a direct question from his superior. And if he lied, that would be even worse—

“I asked you a question, McCree.”

“Barca,” Jesse said. He’d take Barca’s wrath over Reyes’ any day. “He’s with Henderson and Truong. They’re all together in our dorm currently, uh... speaking… German.”

“Speaking German in your dorm,” Reyes replied, completely dry.

“...yeah.”

“Is that your shitty euphemism for my agents are currently hooking up? Which, for the record, I already know and have spoken to them about?”

“Oh. You know. Sir.”

“I’m not an idiot, McCree. And it’s not _strictly_ forbidden if they’re of the same rank. I can’t completely ban people from having sex. It’s just highly inadvisable. So what was that? Your clumsy attempt at protecting them, despite the fact that you owe them nothing?”

Jesse shrugged. Old habits died hard. Lying came naturally. With some members of Deadlock, lying had granted him more protections and certain benefits.

“And so you’re here, by yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Jesse shrugged. “Well I uh… I already spent time with Mourinho. But honestly I think that’s gonna be a one time thing between us.”

“I didn’t ask about your sex life.”

McCree blushed. “Oh, shit, sorry, I misunderstood. I’m… I don’t... uh, I find it tough to talk to most people here, ‘cause they’re mostly all omnics, and—no disrespect to them, sir, but it’s just… hard. We have so little in common. They don’t eat or drink the same foods, and they have different entertainment, and different jokes—”

“Then spend time with the humans,” Reyes said, as if it were that easy. And to him, it probably was. Everyone in Blackwatch respected the commander. Everyone loved him.

“Well…” Jesse began awkwardly. “I tried that too. And it sort of worked, for a time. I did some stuff... with them. But we had nothing in common apart from that. Then they all started splitting off into groups and getting much closer to each other than they were with me, and it’s just… I don’t fit with them, sir. Not really.”

He stopped. He felt foolish, like a kid who couldn’t make friends at school. God, his commander was going to think he was so _dumb_.

The side of the couch in the rec room dipped as Reyes slowly lowered his weight onto it. “Why the hell not?” he asked.

Jesse pulled his feet up onto the couch. “It’s… I’m not like them. They’re all…” he waved one hand around, “like… proper folks. Smart folks, with qualifications. But it’s been the same since I was in school, sir, don’t worry. I’ve gotten used to not really fitting in.”

Reyes didn’t say anything for a long while. Jesse’s hand crept back towards the play button, but stopped when his commander opened his mouth. “I used to watch this every year.”

Jesse’s jaw dropped. “Sir…?”

“Catholic school. Mine had an obscene fondness for making the entire school troop into the gym for the _sacred_ tradition of watching _JCS_ every Easter.”

“You went… to catholic school?”

“Well, my family insisted. And so I went. Why, you know the pain of it as well?” he laughed, low and rich.

Jesse nodded. “Yeah, uh… I had that experience too. While I was still attendin’ school, ‘course.”

Reyes sprawled back on the couch and took Jesse’s mug from his hand. He sniffed it. “What’s in this, McCree?”

“Uh. Whiskey.”

“Whiskey.”

“Had to get back at Barca somehow. He’s got a not-so-well hidden stash of it behind his bed. Not the cheap stuff either.”

Reyes glanced down at the cocoa, shrugged, and took a sip. He handed it back to McCree. “Not bad. I’ll ignore the fact that you’re still underage.”

“With all due respect sir, we’re in Canada. I’m nearly at the legal age here.”

“Yeah, _nearly_.”

“Is there really that much of a difference?”

Reyes snorted quietly, turned back to the paused holoset. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t think there is.” He shifted himself on the couch, spread his legs and arms wide, settling himself down into a comfortable position. “Well?”

“...sir?”

“We gonna watch the movie or not?”

“I... didn’t think you’d want to. You don’t have to spend time with me, sir. Like I’m some kind of kid.”

Reyes looked at him. “It’s not a hardship for me to rest once in a blue moon and spend some time with one of my subordinates. Anyway, took me a while to realize the genius of some of these lyrics. It’s like Stockholm Syndrome. You start to love what you can’t escape.”

Jesse hit the play button. Ted Neeley began singing again, voice high pitched and full of wracked emotion. He dropped to his knees, praying fervently.

Reyes shook his head. “We’ve missed _Poor Jerusalem_. I’m going back.”

“That’s your favourite?”

“Can’t fault the logic, McCree.” He quoted the line almost reverently, “‘To conquer death, you only have to die.’”

Jesse grimaced. “That’s such a morbid line.”

Reyes tilted his head. “Care to give me your opinion, then? What’s your favourite song?”

Jesse frowned for a moment. Turned back to the screen. “Probably this one,” he said, after a long moment of thought.

Reyes remained quiet. He turned back to the holoset, started to skip back through the scenes. When the movie began to play again, Mary Magdalene was on her knees, clutching Jesus’ hand, eyes full of a desperate love she knew he couldn’t return.

Jesse raised the mug to his lips and took a long drink.

The next morning, Jesse found a message left in his locker. He didn’t recognize the handwriting, but he knew the sender instantly. The writing was thick, strong. Bold black strokes across paper, written in some kind of fancy ink pen. He’d written in Spanish. It took Jesse a few moments to switch languages in his brain.

 _You won’t gain any respect from them by me calling them out. These people respect skill. So show them some_.

Jesse read the note a few times. He stuck it in his back pocket.

Two weeks later, Reyes called out all of his agents to the shooting range for assessment. They didn’t have personal weapons of their own, not yet, but the ranges were all well stocked with a vast assortment of armaments, and agents were encouraged to practice with a wide variety. Jesse dressed in his standard issue, tied one of his red scarves around his neck. The hat he placed firmly on top of his head, ready for the occasion.

They were being graded in front of each other, the score kept on a large digital board handled by the base AI. The reason was clear—as much as they were a unit, rivalry was encouraged, almost necessary. Competition bred skill, bred mastery.

They went in alphabetical order. McCree kept his eye on the scoreboard, watched several agents set records, watched others surpass them. When it came to his turn, Jesse knew Reyes would be watching him closely. He stalked down to the targets, pulled off one of the handguns from the weapons rack. A revolver. He tested the weight and grip in his palm.

He knew everyone else would be watching too. The Deadlock Kid.

Jesse closed one eye briefly. Stared at the targets. Stood in position.

“Like fish in a barrel,” he muttered. He fired. And fired again, body already used to the recoil. He’d been doing this since he was fourteen. There had been nobody in Deadlock who could shoot like him.

When he had finished, he replaced the gun wordlessly and left the range. When they reached Z, Jesse remained in the lead by a clear margin. Nobody else had even come close.

By the time Jesse McCree was eighteen, he had become known as Blackwatch’s best sharpshooter. He still didn’t have many friends, but now he had rivals.

Captain Reyes began giving him private sparring sessions late at night, booking the rooms for his own personal use, where they wouldn’t be disturbed. 

Despite the bruises and the frequent trips to the medbay, McCree figured that was no bad thing.

 

* * *

 

The year Jesse turned nineteen, Agent Järvinen was assigned as his first field partner. He was tall, well built, specialized in poisons and knowledgeable on chemical warfare. Järvinen liked Jesse well enough. Jesse liked him well enough. They had slept together once. They could make it work.

The mission succeeded, but Agent Järvinen died in Mexico. Agent Jones was paired with McCree. Jones was shorter, thinner, had a good face. She had gotten the highest scores in hand-to-hand combat.

The mission succeeded, but Jones died in Yemen. When he was hauled in for a disciplinary enquiry, Reyes stood there with the machine.

_Did you deliberately jeopardize their chances of survival? No sir. Are you being paid off by somebody else? No sir. Are you compromised? I don’t believe so, sir._

Reyes slammed his palms flat down onto the table. The lie detector spiked as Jesse started in his chair. The room had no windows, giving it a distinct and very noticeable stuffy air.

“Give me a colour, McCree.”

“Sir?” McCree frowned. The bruise over his left eye was still healing, a lurid purple shade. A parting gift from Yemen.

“The first one that comes to your mind. Give it to me.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Black, sir.”

Reyes walked over to where Jesse was sitting. Grabbing a handful of Jesse’s thick, greasy locks, he pulled them back so that the younger man couldn’t look anywhere but up at him. McCree breathed. His throat struggled against the harsh angle. There were beads of sweat at his temples.

“Give me a colour.” That question again.

He could barely form the word. “Black.”

Reyes let go of his hair sharply and stalked back over to his chair, where he had a fan going. Jesse put one hand over his heart, half slumped over the desk. One breath in, one breath out.

“Next time, you’re with me.”

Jesse closed his eyes. A quiet, silent victory.

Agent McCree and Captain Reyes took a ship to Bangkok. Agent McCree and Captain Reyes both returned from Bangkok. McCree and Reyes went to Jakarta. McCree and Reyes both returned from Jakarta.

 _He’s not compromised_ , read the report later, filed seven minutes before the deadline and passing through fifteen different encryption keys on the way to its final destination. _He’s what we always knew he was. A loner. It’s what he knows and what he does best. In training, he didn’t really make friends. I strongly advised against assigning him a field partner. My advice was deliberately ignored. Now I am two agents down from the few that I started with. My recommendation is to stop putting him on a baby leash. McCree doesn’t need somebody at his side. He either needs somebody to lead, or somebody to follow._

A reply, sent fifteen minutes later as the commander was smoking and working his way through his third coffee of the night: _And you’ll lead him? Personally? When you first started leading this division, you reported McCree’s inability to make strong connections with his peers. And now you’re clearly favoring him. Your unit won’t take well to that kind of favoritism. And we don’t approve it. Don’t give Jesse McCree what he hasn’t earned. Due to his background, he entered on probation. He’s barely left it._

 _If he works with me, he doesn’t get off easy._ Reyes sent back. _My ops are tougher. He’ll get tougher, or he’ll die. And if my guess is right, which it will be, he won’t die._

_We bow to your field and command experience, Captain Reyes. But remember how much we’ve put into this. Don’t ruin it all for the sake of one agent._

 

* * *

 

Reyes and McCree’s third assignment together landed them in the streets of Baghdad, ducking and dodging between lines of chaotically flowing traffic that followed no discernible pattern at all.

Reyes was covering the engineer. McCree had been ahead, dressed in loose cotton that concealed the lines of his thin body armour and disguised the shape of two knives strapped to each thigh, and the gun at his hip. Around late morning, he stopped himself at a coffeehouse and ordered a drink. He wiped his jaw and mouth clean, now covered in hair, thick and full.

The explosion went off sometime around midday, when the sun was at its zenith. Jesse was draining his second cup of the bitter, dark liquid. The buildings shook. People began screaming and diving for cover.

McCree pocketed two sachets of brown sugar and left the coffeehouse just in time for the armoured truck to come hurtling down the street. At least five other cars followed close behind, bullets ricocheting off the body armour and the bulletproof glass of the truck. Pedestrians were screaming all around him.

Jesse ran out into the middle of the road just as it drew closer. The passenger door opened in preparation for him, and he leapt up into the front seat just as it hurtled past, only skimming the skin off one elbow in the process.

The truck hadn’t slowed down an inch. The engineer was shoved between the middle two seats, squashed down near the front and hiding her face in her arms, eyes clamped shut against the dust and covering her ears from the noise. Reyes had the wheel.

“Change of plans?” Jesse yelled, over the sound of gunfire. Reyes’ eyes never left the road. He nodded.

McCree kept himself low, stretched himself out along the front seat, hissing at the scrape of his skinned elbow against the seat cover. He pulled out his gun from the holster, kicked the door back open. From the road underneath, a cloud of dust and dirt instantly blew itself into the vehicle. The engineer let out a muffled wail and a cough.

Jesse pulled his scarf up over his mouth, grabbed onto the side of the truck, and swung himself out just enough to aim. Their closest pursuers were in a sleek dark green car, and steadily gaining on them.

He closed one eye briefly and pulled the trigger. The driver’s head whipped back from the force of the bullet through his skull, smashing heavily against the headrest. His partner, riding shotgun, dropped his rifle and reached for the controls, too late. The driver slumped over the wheel, and the car swerved straight into a nearby stall, sending a display of fruit at least twenty feet into the air.

Jesse saluted the flying watermelons. The engineer hauled him back into the truck by his belt.

From the driver’s seat, Reyes glanced at the rear-view mirror. “You done with the dramatics?” he asked snidely.

“Says the guy who blew up the facility.” McCree replied, ripping open one of the packets of sugar and depositing the entire contents on his tongue.

Reyes grunted.

 

* * *

 

“Can I ask you something, boss?” McCree asked conversationally, as he dried his hair with a towel that had been soft and fluffy maybe sometime in the past millennium. They were lying low in a run-down hotel in Johannesburg. Earlier that day, the two of them had broken into a harbourmaster’s mansion, secured proof of smuggled weaponry, escaped a shipping container destined for the port of Abidjan, and stolen a truck along the way.

Now they were sharing lukewarm bathwater and washing dirty clothes in the sink.

Reyes let out a noncommittal grunt, the one that Jesse had learned over the years meant _you can if you want, and if I like the question enough, I might answer._

“Why did you let me into Blackwatch?”

Reyes looked up from where he was scrubbing a sliver of soap over a drying bloodstain on his shirt. Blackwatch had some of the strongest and most durable armour and stealth gear in the world, but that meant nothing when you had to let yourselves into a house under the guise of Jeff and Greg, the window cleaners.

Jesse knew it had been his fault. On their way out he’d been paying too much attention on keeping his face hidden from the security cameras and the omnic guards on duty, and had accidentally jostled his commander into one of the sharp metal spikes of the fence.

Reyes had appeared to barely notice the sting. It was only when they’d gotten back into their illegal acquired cleaning company truck did he put one hand on his side and bring it back into the light, covered in bright red. Jesse had clamped his hand over his mouth in horror, uttered out a frantic apology. Reyes had cuffed him around the head, more out of principle than in punishment.

McCree had heard whispers from some of the agents, back when they’d been training in Canada. Reyes had apparently been part of some kind of special program in the military that had enhanced his prowess, made him feel less pain. Jesse made a mental note to one day ask him about it.

Jesse watched his commander grit his teeth and stare at the wet shirt. The soap didn’t seem to be doing anything, and the cheap fabric was torn too. If they didn’t each have only one set of clothes currently, Reyes would have tossed this one hours ago.

He cleared his throat, unaware if Reyes had heard him the first time. “Sir?”

The captain dropped the shirt back into the sink with a wet plop, sending a fine spray of water onto the dirty mirror above the sink and Reyes’ arms and chest, currently bare and gleaming from the moisture in the air. He’d pulled rank, bathed first. McCree still needed to wash his own clothes once the captain had finished.

Jesse struggled to keep his eyes respectfully raised. He shoved his face into the damp towel instead and continued to dry his hair.

“I heard you the first time, McCree.” Reyes reached out, turned on one of the taps, added some more hot water to the sink. Jesse allowed himself to lean against the door frame. “Those mandatory written tests are pretty useful, you know.”

“In what way?” McCree asked, face and hair emerging from the towel.

Reyes stared at his hazy reflection in the steamy mirror. “Well they make sense, obviously, and their purpose is clear. Everybody needs to be workin’ at a certain level and needs to provide documented proof of that. But they’re more than just standardized testing.” He plunged his hands into the water again, resumed scrubbing. “If you know what you’re testing for.”

“Like what?”

“You get points for correct answers, that’s always a given. But whoever’s grading it might also be looking for something beyond just correct answers.”

Jesse’s face emerged from the towel. “And I did that?”

“Yeah, who would have thought. Funnily enough, you did.”

“What did I show you?”

“What I needed. That you were smart and could think outside the box.” He pulled the shirt out of the sink, began wringing it out. “And that you had a sense of humour.”

McCree blushed, remembering the crudely drawn spider. “I was… I was dumber, back then. Thought I was being funny.”

Reyes settled his damp, dripping shirt on the empty towel rack and turned to McCree. “It _was_ pretty funny. Told Morrison about the worm wearing a single boot. Never seen him laugh so hard. ‘Sides, it’s a good thing, in this business. To be able to laugh.”

He brushed past Jesse on the way out, damp shoulder against damp shoulder. “Go finish up in there.”

“Yes sir.”

 

* * *

 

The years flew by, after that. They were in La Paz, dismantling a dirty bomb. They were in Taipei, tracking down a human trafficking ring. They were negotiating with Old Bratva in Sarajevo. Nairobi, foiling a coup. Islamabad, blowing up the residence of a local warlord.

In Nairobi, the toilets hadn’t had paper. Reyes had shown him the little attached hose, grinned from ear to ear. In La Paz, the fish had tasted awful (drugged, as Agent Meijer confirmed later), and Jesse had narrowly avoided a serious case of food poisoning. In Sarajevo, Jesse had limped all the way back to the safehouse with deep, even stripes all the way down his back and thighs, completely silent as the medics checked him for internal injuries. It was the little things that stuck, not the missions themselves.

Jesse McCree became well known throughout Blackwatch for his survivability.

Friends became irrelevant. The old gang had mostly all disappeared. Now there was fresh blood on the base, and he had admirers.

 

* * *

 

“You ever play chess, McCree?” Reyes asked one evening, as McCree opened the door of their shared hotel room with two black coffees and a box of doughnuts. Slightly stale now, but still good. He’d gotten them cheap from the bakery right before it closed, since they’d wanted to clear out the day’s stock.

McCree frowned as he kicked the door shut with one foot. On the battered wooden table sat a chess board. A real one. He doubted a hotel of this calibre had provided it, which meant Reyes must have either dragged it with them all the way to Brazil, or somehow swiped it from the target’s downtown office when he’d broken in earlier. He had no idea where Reyes could have even kept such an object. There had been no room anywhere on his commander’s outfit where he could have concealed it.

Jesse peered at the board, set the coffees carefully down on the table. “Chess? Nah, never learned the rules. I was always more of a checkers kind of guy, myself. There were a coupla’ omnic fellas in Deadlock though, they were really into it. Never saw the attraction, honestly.”

Reyes leaned back in his chair, picked up one of the coffees in hand. “Makes sense. It’s a game of strategy. Must have been lost on your dumb ass.” Past Reyes, who was sitting with his back to the balcony, Jesse could see the city lights. Pinpricks of bright yellow, in a dark night sky. 

“Thanks boss,” McCree muttered, no heat behind the words. He ripped open a packet of sugar and dumped it into his coffee. This routine was well worn now, between them.

His commander smirked, reached for the doughnut with the least icing on top, and a paper napkin. “But my old man, he was into that kind of thing. Strategy games, all that shit. Wanted me to be too.”

Jesse stirred his coffee, slid into the chair opposite Reyes. He toed off his boots, plucked his hat off from his head, and pulled his socked feet up onto the chair. Reyes had never talked about his family before. Jesse had never found within himself the courage to ask, either. He took a sip of his coffee. Added some more sugar. Waited.

The board was set out for a game. Reyes had placed the black pieces on his own side. Jesse had white. McCree stared down at his pieces. All stylized, cut from some kind of hard plastic. The board had a joint down the middle where it could be folded up for storage.

“So what do you already know?” Reyes asked, switching to Spanish.

Jesse shrugged, followed the theme. “It’s a game of strategy. Uh, there’s a king, and the rest of the pieces are like… medieval themed. I know you win when you say checkmate.”

Reyes let out a soft snort. “There’s a king, and a queen.” Reyes pointed them out on the board, showed Jesse the different crowns. “There’s also—” he picked up each of his own pieces in turn, displaying their differences, “—what’s called a rook, or sometimes a castle, and a bishop, and a knight. And these ones in the front are the pawns.”

“Why are there so many of them?”

“They’re like… the frontline soldiers. This entire game’s a stylistic form of war, they say. You each move in turns, and the winner is the person who can capture or force their opponent’s king to surrender. That’s checkmate.”

McCree hummed. Picked up one of the pawns. Examined it. Perfectly blank all around. He set it down again. Grabbed himself a doughnut.

Reyes switched to Portuguese. “They each have different ways of moving, and capturing other pieces.”

“How do they move?” Jesse asked. He set down his coffee.

Reyes leaned in. “The pawns can move one space forward each time. One space, and they can’t move back. ‘Cept when they’re first moving, they got more energy, and can move two spaces.”

“How come?”

“No idea, just the way it works.” He gestured towards the board. “You’ll pick it up quicker if we try a game. Go on, white always moves first. I’ll walk you through it.”

McCree chewed his bottom lip. He reached out, hand hovering over the pieces. He moved a pawn forward and looked up at his commander after he had finished, eyes searching for confirmation. Reyes nodded, and moved his own pawn. The two of them were diagonal from each other.

He nodded at the pieces. Changed to French. “Pawns capture diagonally. So next move, if you wanted, you could take that piece.” Jesse did so. Reyes moved his knight out in front. “The knight is special, moves in an L-shape. They can also jump over other pieces. No one else can do that.”

Reyes walked him through a basic game. “Each piece has an unofficial point value,” he continued, as he showed McCree how to bring his knight out onto the board to attack. “Sometimes they shift slightly in importance. It all depends on the setup you got.”

McCree couldn’t entirely follow the language, frowning to signal his lack of comprehension.

Reyes switched back to English and repeated himself. Then he picked up a pawn. “As you’ve already grasped, pawns are the least valuable pieces. They’re assigned a value of one point. So. Not that much. It ain’t a big deal if you lose one. But this—” he picked up the bishop, “is worth three points, so if you have to make the decision between losing the pawn or losing the bishop, ninety-nine percent of the time you’ll want to save the bishop.” He moved to put the piece back.

“Like agents,” Jesse said suddenly.

Reyes stopped mid-action, hand hovering in the air. He set the bishop down carefully. “Yeah, I guess so.”

McCree ran a thumb over his bottom lip. “How much are they all worth?”

“Pawn is one. Knight and bishop are three. Rook is five. Queen is nine, because she’s the most powerful piece on the board.”

“What about the king?”

“He doesn’t have a value.”

“But that don’t make sense. Why not? He’s the most important piece. He’s the one everyone is fighting for. He’s...”

“He’s what?”

“Well, he’s like you, isn’t he sir? I mean, you gotta admit. It fits with the name and everythin’. _El rey_ , the most powerful piece.”

“Why are you trying to relate this to work, McCree?” Reyes rubbed one hand over his beard and moustache, and moved a piece.

“Just workin’ with what I know, sir.” Jesse took a sip of his coffee, sweet and cooling. “You show me this game and say it’s like war and give them roles, and I can’t help but put faces to ‘em.”

Reyes leaned back in his chair. “ _Is_ the king the most powerful piece though?”

“He’s the most important.”

“True, but think about his utility in the game. What does he do, other than sit there and watch everyone else move? Nothin’ really. He doesn’t have a value because he’s both the most and least valuable piece on the board. He’s vital, and you spend all your energy protecting him, but he can only move one space in any direction. In combat, he’s not all that great.”

“But the queen…?”

“Can move in any direction, any number of spaces she likes.”

McCree whistled through his teeth. “Sounds like she’s got him pretty beat.”

Reyes laughed. “Yeah, she’s a tough one. Always savin’ his poor useless ass.”

Jesse changed back into Spanish. “So you’re the queen then. Sir. You go anywhere and do anything. And the rest of us are the pawns. They’re out of the game quick.”

“You really think that?” his commander asked, raising an eyebrow, matching him.

“That… what? That you’re the queen or we’re the pawns? Both.”

“You’re not a pawn, McCree. Not by far.”

His subordinate gave him a level stare. “What would you say I am then, sir?”

“If I had to pick, I’d put you down as a knight, at least. Jumping over people, moving in unconventional ways. Besides, being pawn isn’t terrible. Not if they can make it to the other end. Because if they do, then they can become a queen.”

Jesse looked down at the board. Both of his knights had already been taken by Reyes, but he knew Reyes was going pretty easy on him, a beginner’s match. “So the weakest piece… can become the strongest piece?”

“Yep, if they last long enough.”

The game went on. Jesse won the match easily, as he knew he would. He leaned back in his chair, studied the board.

“You’re pretty good at this,” Reyes said, tone light. Praise from Reyes was generally few and far between. He expected quality from everyone around him, and only tended to give out praise when somebody had gone above and beyond his expectations.

Jesse shrugged, reached for another doughnut. The windows were all open, letting in a cool breeze. From below, he could hear the sounds of the city beneath them, ever in motion. “Nah, just beginner’s luck.”

“There’s no such thing as luck,” the captain replied. “Only good genetics. You’re a smart one, McCree. We both know that.”

Jesse blushed slightly, shoved his face into his knees and pretended to cough around his mouthful of doughnut.

“Want another?” Reyes asked, back to English again. “I won’t go easy on you, this time.”

“Sure thing,” McCree smiled. “I think I got it sir. An’ I wouldn’t want you to.”

They set up the board again. McCree moved first. Reyes moved his pawn in response. They continued playing. This time, Reyes didn’t go so easy on his student. He had an aggressive playing style, Jesse noticed. Jesse wanted to do the same, but as a novice he didn’t always think all of his moves through. A few times he moved a piece without seeing the obvious counter, and Reyes would swoop in and take his piece easily. He was dwindling down to a knight, a rook, a few other pieces. He’d already lost both bishops.

Reyes put him in check. Jesse cursed. He’d missed an obvious move.

His commander laughed at his frustration. “This is just like sparring, dumbass. You’re making the same mistakes here that you did there, and you’re falling for it every time, McCree. Obvious bait is obvious bait.”

“I’m trying, I’m trying,” McCree mumbled. “Not my fault I’m a beginner, an’ you’ve been playing this for years.”

“Yeah, well you’re doing a lot better than I did, the first time I played.” Reyes replied. “With time, you might even overtake me.”

McCree grinned at the praise. “Gotta say,” he said. “It’s a real shame the king isn’t the strongest piece.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it would fit a lot more nicer.” The next part came out before he could stop it. “I mean, if you could be the king.” He bit his lip, stared down at the board.

Reyes stopped moving his pieces. “But if the king had all the power, then there wouldn’t be a need for any other piece. Everyone else becomes useless.”

“Yeah, I guess…” McCree scratched his head. “So if I’m a knight and you’re the queen, then who’s the king? Who are we protecting?”

“I think it’s time we finished this game,” Reyes said. He stared back down at the board.

Jesse moved his piece. “Did you ever beat your old man?” he asked, suddenly remembering what his commander had mentioned earlier. He didn’t know if Reyes wanted to continue that thread of conversation, but he _had_ broached the topic himself.

Fathers were bad business though.

Reyes didn’t look up at him. “No. Never got good enough. I was a punk kid, always more interested in shooting a few hoops or hanging out with my friends. Didn’t give a damn ‘bout my grades or sitting down with my dad, playing board games. What kid would? I didn’t understand him. Thought he just couldn’t get with the times. Until....” he trailed off, staring at the white queen and rook, bearing down on the black king.

“Sir?” Jesse wasn’t sure if he’d gone too far.

Reyes drew in a deep breath, like he was steadying himself. “Until you get older, and one day you realize that suddenly white folks are giving you a wide berth when you walk down the street, and cops are following you around when you go to the store. And then you’re sitting in your high school class and you hear about back in the day, about white cops killing black folks and politicians talking about deporting immigrants, and you think ‘shit, this is the kind of bullshit my parents grew up with.’”

McCree swallowed. “I’m… sorry, sir.” He had fucked up.

Reyes shrugged. “Eh, it’s not your damn fault. But I went home that day and I told my parents what I’d been learning, and my ma, she gave me this sad look and sat me down and told me that my dad was in prison when he was younger, for some shit he didn’t even do. They locked him up just ‘cause he was black and Latino. My ma ain’t never told me that story before. When he came home from work she talked to him and then my old man, do you know what he did? He said to me, completely serious, ‘it’s still a white man’s world, Gabriel, don’t let anyone ever tell you that it’s not. It’s a white man’s world and I’ve been fighting since I was young for people to see me as something more than the colour of my skin. We’ve made progress over the years, yeah. But we still aren’t equal, so don’t let anybody tell you that we are.’ And then he brings out this goddamn antique of a chess board and we sit down after dinner and he says, ‘this is more than a game, Gabriel. This is how the world works. And once you figure out how to play the game, you figure out how to play ball in the white man’s world.’”

He made his final move; gestured to the pieces left on the board. “And that’s checkmate. That’s how you win, McCree. That’s a basic game of chess.”

McCree’s king stood alone, troops scattered to the winds.

 

* * *

 

In Las Vegas during a quiet moment of respite, Jesse McCree picked himself up a belt. The buckle was gaudy, flashy. Ridiculous. Typical of the city.

McCree liked it. When he got back to Canada, a few of the newer agents timidly asked him what the acronym stood for. Jesse told them, white teeth flashing in his open mouth as he threw his head back and laughed deeply. Despite his young age, he had already become somewhat of a figure among them. The Deadlock Kid, with his hat and boots. And now a belt to add to the mix.

When he was twenty two, Jesse McCree was assigned his first assassination. This time, Reyes wasn’t his partner, but his handler. Jesse flew out to Odessa alone.

The mission in Odessa succeeded. Somewhere along the way, he took up smoking cigars and cigarillos. He tried taking his coffee without sugar, to no avail. McCree went through the motions like clockwork, waiting. The colour was grey.

 

* * *

 

In Port-au-Prince, he remained wide awake in bed with the youngest daughter of a drug kingpin. The old man had been responsible for the murder of hundreds in his time. She had murdered too. She was no more innocent than him. To her, Jesse McCree did not and would never exist.

Joseph Monte, however, was smart and suave and dressed in a suit and shirt that pulled tight against his rapidly broadening chest and outlined the shape of his waist. Joseph Monte was a lover, not a fighter. Joseph Monte was in Haiti with a business partner, Girão Rezendes. Girão was older, stoic, practically minded. Joseph Monte was distinctly more frivolous, but prone to flashes of late night inspiration that kept him useful to Rezendes.

Security at her father’s place was tight. Luckily, she was suggestible, bored, and a whole lot dumber than she liked to think.

Rezendes was in the adjoining room of the hotel they were in. At this time of night, Monte knew he was probably awake, planning out new business strategies. His bed was pushed against the wall. Their bed was pushed against the same wall. When the kingpin’s daughter stretched out her hands and scrabbled at the flaking plaster, leaving dark blue streaks with her long, manicured nails, Monte realised how paper-thin the walls were.

Monte was a lover. Monte bared his teeth and smiled down at her and moaned. He threw his head back and gasped out his pleasure to the cool night air and the cicadas buzzing incessantly outside. The leaves rustled in the sea breeze drifting in from the open window. The kingpin’s daughter raked her nails down Monte’s back. Monte let out a howl, louder than necessary. When she was sated and sleepy and drifting off into the realm of dreams, Monte brought out a pistol and silencer. One shot to the temple. No need to make it more painful than it had to be.

Monte was efficient. He got into the shower, washed away the evidence, barely noticing his trembling hands. He left the body in the bed, and waited till 4 a.m.

At 4:03 precisely, Monte was seized with a burst of creativity and sent an email to his business partner. At 4:04, the power in the hotel went out. At 4:06, the backup generators kicked in. In that time, Monte and Rezendes had both mysteriously vanished into the ether.

Jesse McCree and Gabriel Reyes emerged from the dusk, meeting at 4:08 a.m.

Before McCree could speak, Reyes grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head back to check the dilation of his pupils. He put one large, warm hand over McCree’s smaller, colder one. Reyes had resumed doing this since McCree’s post-Odessa psych eval.

“ _Donne-moi la couleur_.” His accent had changed, to more closely match the locals.

“ _Rouge_ ,” McCree answered, lips moving before he could really think about it.

Reyes let go of his hair instantly. He stalked over to the bed, and sent out the code for cleanup. They waited in the still, quiet air. When they got back to their safehouse, Reyes asked him the colour again. This time, the colour was black.

Reyes was satisfied. Haiti, Monte and Rezendes were never mentioned again. Jesse got the message, loud and clear in its silence. The ball was left in the court, abandoned. Mary Magdalene wandered through the dark, singing of futile hopes.

Sometime after Haiti, everything changed.

 

* * *

 

He was alone, pulling a trigger in Siena, Bogotá, Guangzhou. By Cairo, he was cleaning and disassembling a gun in a new record time. Revolver, pistol, shotgun. Didn’t matter.

By Cairo, McCree realized he was being pigeonholed.

When he arrived back at base, he walked straight to the door of Reyes’ office. Past Agent Rumilcar, who had offlined their optics while they quietly listened to music, and Agents Hedson and Rajan, who were feeding each other pineapple chunks out of a can. Jesse didn’t bother to ask.

He knocked once, curtly, because even if irritated he wasn’t about to invite the wrath of the Furies down upon him by barging into Commander Reyes’ office unannounced and uninvited.

A few moments of silence, and then: “come in.”

“I’m being typecast,” he said, as he pushed open the door. Reyes occupied his chair, smoking a cigarillo. The screens of the datapads open on his desk were carefully locked and blank. It had been months since Jesse had seen his commander in person.

“Hmm?” Reyes asked, not bothering to turn around. He was studying the only painting he kept on his wall. Jesse had been in Commander Morrison’s office sparingly, enough times to count entirely on one hand. Very pristine, very showy, for the head of Overwatch. Several potted plants in the corner. A casual couch for dignitaries. A large map hung on one wall, actually drawn on real parchment, old and expensive. Several landscapes, all featuring some kind of pastoral scene. 

Reyes’ office was just as clean and tidy as Morrison’s, but no need for the fancy getup. Nobody saw it but his own agents. He had hung a single painting above his dark wooden desk. An abstract; a varied wash of oranges and yellows in jagged horizontal stripes. In the centre, a single red disk. If it meant anything at all, the meaning was obscure save to Reyes himself.

“I’m being typecast,” Jesse repeated. “We used to go on varied missions, when it was the two of us. Now that it’s just me I get the same deal over and over again.”

“You don’t agree with my assignments?” The chair spun around.

“It’s not that, sir, it’s—”

Reyes crossed his arms, interrupted him. “Did I ever give you the impression even _once_ , McCree, that when I saved your ass from prison you were doing _me_ a favour?”

“No sir,” Jesse replied glumly.

“Remember our agreement?”

“Yes sir.” As if he could ever forget. One life, one shooting arm. A fair deal.

He glanced away briefly, and suddenly noticed the letter also present on Reyes’ desk. It caught his eye because it was actually printed, and on thick, expensive paper too. “News, sir?”

Reyes sniffed. “Not that it’s any of your damn business, but you’ll find out soon anyway, so. Angela got that promotion.”

“Angela? Ziegler?”

“The only one we got. She did your medical exam when you first joined, didn’t she? Now she’s head of the entire research department.”

“Huh.”

“And that’s my official invitation to Switzerland, for the ceremony.”

“...will you be going, sir?”

A short chuckle. “I ain’t got a choice. I’m head of Blackwatch.”

“I… see.”

Reyes stared at him for a few more moments, dark smoke slowly wafting from between his lips. “Sometimes I forget you’re still both so goddamned fuckin’ young.”

“Sir?”

“Your schedule’s cleared for the next month. Go tell Rumilcar they’re in charge of your hits.”

He’d fucked up. Big time.

“Next assignment, you’re with me.”

 

* * *

 

 **Name:** McCree, Jesse  
**Rank:** Agent, Level 7  
**Assignment:** Overwatch, combat operations  
**Date of birth:** [classified]  
**Place of birth:** Sante Fe, New Mexico, U.S.A.  
**Languages:** English, Spanish

 **Agent #:** 3323393  
**Rank:**  Level 7  
**Date of birth:** [classified]  
**Place of birth:** [classified]  
**Languages:** English, Spanish (fluency); Portuguese, French, Italian, Russian (partial-fluency); Swedish, German, Turkish, Nahuatl (minor)  
**Specializations:** Marksman, Assassin

 

When Jesse McCree was twenty three years old, he left on assignment with his commander, Gabriel Reyes.

Not all of him made it back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> γνῶθι σεαυτόν ; "know thyself", an Ancient Greek aphorism inscribed in the pronaos of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi. To know where you are going, you must first know from where you came.
> 
> [The Dark Tower](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Dark_Tower_\(2017_film\))  
> [Gethsemane](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X_mJgVwQ3Qw)  
> [Poor Jerusalem](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5uHpmtAGmvo) 
> 
> \- The 1973 version of _Jesus Christ Superstar_ was a ritual during my school years, and is also my favourite version to this day.  
>  \- _“Donne-moi la couleur.”_ ; "Give me the colour."  
>  \- _“Rouge”_ ; "red"
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, you can find me at [tumblr](http://sassanids.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/hydriades)!


	8. Update

I have received quite a few messages about this now so no, the fic is not abandoned!!! I started a new job in November that's 9-5, 5 days a week which naturally eats up at most of my fic writing time and my real life has been super super tough recently.

I appreciate every single person who takes the time to read this fic and asks for updates! But don't worry, I hope to have chapter eight out soon. Thank you so much for your patience. It means so much to me.


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